


Relinquish

by wickersnap



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Just Add Kittens, Multi, Triwizard Tournament, a bit crack-y I suppose, and other small animals, communication! drama! the works, fourth year rewrite but make it a bit gay, group project bonding, inexplicably: cats, more like rivals, very bad puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: “Harry,wehate him, but even we don’t care where he goes at two in the morning on a Thursday in May.”
Relationships: (IMPLIED), (background), Cassius Warrington/George Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Theodore Nott, Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 47
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: To copy a message from my last 2/3 posts, I really didn't think I was going to post this at all. This was more a casual project of bursts of inspiration than anything, but I'm afraid all of that left after JKR started spouting vitriol over on twitter. I thought I would go ahead and post this regardless, just for the few people who may take some enjoyment out of it :)  
> I had planned to finish the book (as you do), but for JKR and motivation related reasons I have not. I hate that she's ruined something that has brought an awful lot of people so much joy, but I also despise how she decided it a good idea to use her very considerable platform to attack me and my friends and our loving, peaceful, worldwide community so blatantly. I hope all of you are well and looking after yourselves despite her atrocities and the state of the world right now <3
> 
> Please do enjoy!

As much as he hated to acknowledge it, Harry knew that he and Draco Malfoy were an odd sort of pair. He’d been the first wizard his age that Harry had met and spoken to, and  _ everyone  _ in the school knew about their explosive interactions. They’d always been together, in the nearby-but-not-willingly sense of the word, which definitely existed. 

When, in their first year, he’d had to suffer detention with him, he distinctly remembers thinking that if Malfoy wasn’t so bloody full of himself all the time, he might even be nice to talk to. 

Most teachers had tried to pair them together for activities in a vain attempt to get them to stop bitching at each other before any of them knew any better. Professor McGonagall still does so sometimes, possibly as an ongoing gauge as to their levels of maturity. Harry thinks creativity in cursing could potentially be a brilliant gauge, if not the one she wants from them.

But, point is: the draw between himself and Malfoy is absolutely bloody bizarre, which is what he tells Ron and Hermione on Monday morning when he voices his thoughts over breakfast.

“Well of course it is,” Ron agrees, as any good friend would. “You’re both obsessed.”

Hermione smacks him lightly on the arm with an abandoned Daily Prophet, still chewing fervently on her toast with jam. “It’s not that bad, Ron, it’s a rivalry.”

Harry hums. “Yeah, it’s…”

“Silly?” she supplies, and swallows. “Childish? Annoying? All-consuming?”

“Not quite what I was looking for.”

“True, though,” Ron snorts.

“Bugger off, will you,” Harry grumbles. “It’s perfectly fine.”

“Harry, you chase him around the castle even when he’s doing perfectly innocuous things, like going to the library,” Hermione reminds him, voice lowered.

“And not to mention those stupid notes he sends you,” Ron adds. “Folds them into flashy origami things, too, the ponce. Puts a real load of effort into them for some so-called hatred.”

“It’s called dedication to seeing something through,” Harry tells them haughtily, feeling less and less as if he has a stable grasp of normal human relationships. “I hate him.”

Ron and Hermione look at each other in a way that does not have him entirely convinced that they believe him.

“Harry,  _ we  _ hate him, but even  _ we  _ don’t care where he goes at two in the morning on a Thursday in May.” Hermione grimaces and looks to Ron for help.

“Sure, he seems to enjoy threatening us and calling us names,” Ron says, “but he seems quite intent on provoking you in any way he can, and I don’t think it’s residual resentment for being turned down any more.”

Harry looks down at his plate in silence, trying his level best not to actually  _ think _ about what they’re talking about. “Whatever you say,” he concedes. “Shouldn’t we be heading down to Hagrid’s already?”

“Probably,” Hermione agrees, standing immediately and leaving Ron to shovel the remains of his cereal in his gob and race after them.

“Do you really think I’m being stupid?” Harry asks her before Ron’s thudding footsteps can catch up to them. 

“All the time, Harry, all the time,” she laughs. “But that’s because I’m your friend.” 

“You’re both horrible,” Ron says. “Terrible friends, you are.”

“Only on Mondays,” Harry agrees, and lopes off down the lawn with a whoop.

“Morning, Hagrid!” they all chorus through their laughter, Hermione almost crashing into the back of him when they careen to a stop outside the hut.

“Hello you three!” Hagrid booms. “Good to see you in high spirits!”

Harry hangs tightly onto Ron’s shoulder in an attempt to keep his stitch at bay. 

“Look at them,” he hears one of the Slytherins sneer. The lot of them are already lounging around looking either incredibly bored or somewhat disturbed, and it sets him off laughing again before he can be bothered to give even Malfoy the finger.

“Well then gather round, gather round!” Hagrid calls. Harry tries to be quiet and respectful, but can’t help but join Ron’s sniggering. “We’re goin’ to start a special project this year, to see how well you lot can ’andle taking care of animals independently. Asking for ’elp’s not a crime, a course, an’ yer gonna be in groups an’ all, so hopefully it won’t be too hard on you.” Hagrid takes a clipboard and a very large pencil from inside his coat, alongside an odd bundle of large sticks. “All o’ you’ll take a stick and tell me the number you get, an’ then that’ll put you in yer pairs. Ther’s one group a three, so they’ll get the kneazle kits.”

Harry has absolutely no clue what Hagrid’s talking about, but he smiles brightly at him when he goes up to draw his straw. He turns it over in his hand until he sees the wonky  _ 0 _ carved in the middle.

“Zero,” he tells him. And steps aside to let the next person through. Hagrid beams and scribbles something on the paper.

“A’right then,” Hagrid says when they’re all done. The whispers and squeaks of excitement die down, anticipating. “Once ye’ve been put in yer pairs I’ll be assignin’ you yer baby animals. Ye’ll be graded on yer teamwork an’ dedication, and how well you deal with any trouble. No points will be deducted fer askin’ me or anyone else fer help—ye won’t be alone when you grow up, so I don’t see why you’d hafta be now.”

He clears his throat and flourishes his clipboard, beginning to read off the pairs from highest to lowest draws.

“Neville an’ Theodore Nott,” he calls, not bothering to hide who his friends are. Harry has always liked that about Hagrid, however unprofessional it is; he is almost always transparent.

“Miss Parkinson an’ Miss Brown,” Hagrid continues. 

“You must be kidding me,” Lavender mutters lowly, going to stand, glowering, by her partner. He continues through the list.

“... Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas… Miss Patil and Gregory Goyle… Ron and Blaise Zabini…”

“Bloody hell,” Ron whimpers, and Harry feels sorry for him for about half a second before—

“...and Harry, Hermione and Draco Malfoy!”

Bloody  _ hell.  _ Harry glances at Hermione, who is wide eyed and holding her breath. After a few seconds she snaps back to herself, holding her head high and stalking off to stand with their new partner. Harry follows, unsurprised by how reluctant Malfoy is to be around her. They stand around in an awkward silence, watching Hagrid fuss around with crates and leads. Ron grimaces and mouths ‘help’ to them when Hagrid hands him one of two baby nifflers.

“Orphans they all are,” Hagrid tells the class. “I try to collect the weakest ones I find so I can look after ’em meself, but I can’t be everywhere at once.” Harry gives Hermione a look that makes the corners of her mouth twitch up. 

Eventually Hagrid comes to stand in front of the three of them, clutching a large wooden crate that looks like it’s been filled with blankets.

“Ther’re eight o’ them, see,” he murmurs, lowering the crate into their arms. Hermione tries to take the weight of it, but something inside squeaks and the whole thing tips. Both Harry and Malfoy snap out their hands to steady it, peering over the edge and studiously ignoring each other.

Hermione gasps ever so slightly, and the look on her face is akin to what Harry might call  _ lovestruck. _ Inside the crate are indeed eight tiny kittens, all slumped over each other in a big sleepy pile. Each one has pointier ears and a tad longer snout than Harry suspects normal kittens do, but other than that he would be hard pushed to differentiate them.

“They’re going to need a lot a lookin’ after, but I didn’ ’ave the heart to split them up,” Hagrid explains, reaching in and running a huge finger down the back of the one on top of the pile. It rolls over to show them its tummy and purrs loudly. Hagrid looks between Harry and Hermione and then to Malfoy with an expression that screams uncertainty. Harry doesn’t know if they even notice their teacher’s concern, distracted as they both are by the curious gazes of the little black and grey-white creatures.

“Thank you, Hagrid!” Hermione says. “We’ll definitely do our best.” 

Thankfully mollified, Hagrid turns to the rest of the class. Some are cooing over their new charges, some are sullenly watching their new partners and looking uncomfortable. Ron has decided with great grace and decorum to ignore Zabini altogether, and is leading his adorable little fluffball around by dangling the glinting buckle of his watch strap in front of it.

“Now I want yers to all be helping the others out in the common rooms when you’re not with yer partners!” Hagrid calls. At least they won’t have to worry about single-handedly wrangling kittens every night. “I’ll go an’ get the food an’ supplies, and you can all get ta know yer new friends.”

“I can take them first,” Hermione murmurs, though by the look on her face she hardly considers it a hardship. She lowers herself to sit in the grass. “Harry can have them tomorrow night and…” 

“I’ll take them the night after,” Malfoy sighs, sitting across from her and reaching in to take one of the kittens out. He holds it to eye level, inspecting its tiny paws and ears. “You don’t have to worry about me, Granger, I’m not going to sacrifice my own grades just to sabotage you.”

“Don’t be so full of yourself,” Harry mutters, though he plonks down next to Hermione and tries to figure out the best way to extract his own kneazle friend. Hermione watches Malfoy for a few more moments.

“Fine, Malfoy,” she decides, “but make sure you pull your weight when writing the reports.”

Malfoy huffs a sardonic almost-laugh. “The only one we need to be concerned about pulling weight around here is Potter.”

“Will you shut—”

“Oh stop it, both of you,” Hermione snaps. Harry falls silent, and remains kneazle-less. He eyes the crate from the side, and the speckled monsters in his partners’ hands. He watches them bumble around with their sharp claws and pointy teeth and penchant for using them until Malfoy manages to catch his eye.

“Like this,” he says, holding up a kitten by its tummy with his fingers curled into its chest and his other hand around his hind legs. The one in his lap clambers around unsteadily, finding itself trapped every time Malfoy shifts to follow it. Keeping them where he wants them looks so effortless that Harry wonders where he learnt how to do it. Has he had cats? Does he just like animals? Is Lucius the type of man to take his son on days out to the zoo?

Eventually electing to stop thinking and instead pay attention, Harry reaches into the crate and scoops up the almost fully white kitten that’s been trying to climb the wall nearest him. It comes without complaint, rubbing its head into Harry’s hands insistently. He almost drops it when it’s sandpaper tongue appears and licks a stripe up his left index finger, so he places it carefully in his robe-covered lap.

“Most of ’em are male,” Hagrid says, putting the litter tray, food cartons and eight small food bowls and two for water next to them. “That one you ’ave there Harry, and both of those grey-black ones Malfoy and Hermione have are the girls.” 

Harry smiles down at the little kneazle. She struggles over his legs to poke her nose towards the grasses.

“Can we name them?” he asks.

Hagrid laughs. “Of course you can! I’d even let you keep ’em if you were allowed more’n one pet.”

“You’re not going to give them stupid muggle names, are you?” Malfoy interrupts. Harry is sorely tempted to immediately proclaim the cat Malfoy then picks up as Spot, but he might actually get hexed for it.

“Hagrid,” he says instead, “what are these flowers called?” he points to the patch of small white-petalled flowers by his knee currently under intense investigation by his kneazle.

“Mountain avens, those. Plenty around. They’re in these bushy patches ’ere, ’cause they ’ave woody stems to survive in the cold.”

Hermione perks up. “Mountain avens are also known as  _ Dryas octopetala. _ They’re the official territorial flower of the Northwest Territories and the national flower of Iceland. I think that’s a lovely idea, Harry.”

“Avennia, then?” he asks, picking up the white kneazle again and holding her to eye level. She watches him steadily and mews, so he takes that as a yes, and tries to ignore how terrible his naming ability actually is.

With a sudden thought, Harry frowns. “Hagrid, how are we supposed to look after them while we’re in lessons?”

“Oh,” he says, unsure, “well I though’—”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Hermione cuts in. “They can only be left for a short while at the moment, correct?” Hagrid nods. “And all of the other teachers know?” Hagrid nods again. “Then we take the crate with us for lessons. If we can train them to use the tray, and attach it to the side so they can go in when they need to, it should be fine, right?”

“Potions and Herbology might prove difficult,” Malfoy points out.

“Herbology should be fine, shouldn’t it?” Harry asks. “I get the feeling Professor Sprout won’t exactly mind as long as they don’t try to eat anything.”

“They’re fairly self-sufficient,” Hagrid agrees. “As long as none of ’em get hurt, you won’t have to pay much attention after feedin’ time.”

“Snape can bloody well get on with it,” Hermione huffs. “Who cares if he doesn’t like it. Malfoy and I are more than satisfactory enough to get by, so Harry can keep his full attention on his brewing.”

Harry rolls his eyes and cuddles Avennia, letting her climb onto his shoulder.

“C’mon, Zabini,” comes Ron’s voice from behind them. Malfoy looks over Harry’s shoulder, so Harry tries to do the same without dislodging his kneazle. 

“How are things over here?” Ron asks, sitting beside them and seeming not to notice the niffler swinging from his robes. Zabini has the other sitting on his head, and is wandering over to pet the kittens that Malfoy has gathered.

“So you’re not ignoring him then?” Harry asks.

Ron shrugs. “He hasn’t tried to insult me or my family yet, so no. That one seems to like you.”

Harry laughs. “She does. I’m not particularly popular though.” He points to Hermione over in seventh kitten heaven. 

“Crookshanks won’t forgive you for this, you know,” Ron tells her.

“Crookshanks will behave nicely if he knows what’s good for him,” she replies, introducing him to her little Marcassin.

“Why on Earth would you name a kneazle after a wild boar?” Malfoy blurts. Zabini raises his eyebrow. At whom, Harry doesn’t know.

“Look at his markings!” she insists, pointing to the faint horizontal stripes. “They’re so unusual.”

“Baby boar are cute,” Ron encourages weakly. Harry isn’t sure who’s worse at naming things anymore.

Zabini laughs gently. “Can we stick to simpler names?”

“Says you,” Ron mutters.

“Oh yes,  _ Ronald _ . I think my new son looks rather like a Leonard.” He strokes the niffler’s snout. “Don’t you agree?”

“I guess so,” Ron frowns. He pets his own niffler and considers. “I’m calling her Charlie.” He decides.

Zabini and Malfoy blink. “Huh,” Zabini says, and nothing else.

“So,” Hagrid ventures, “what do you think?”

“About the project?” Ron asks. “Brilliant, really. Though I think most people would have wanted to choose their partners.”

Hagrid tilts his head in a ‘that’s fair’ motion. “I suppose, but I wan’ed to make sure I was including that inter-’ouse cooperation McGonagall wants. It always could’ve been the Blast-Ended Skrewts, but I though’ they were less work an’ better learning so I gave ’em to the fifth years for OWLs.”

“Whatever those are, they don’t sound very pleasant,” Zabini makes the mistake of saying, and Hagrid launches into a detailed and wandering description. 

They sound terrible, but Hagrid seems to love them, so they commend him on letting the fifth years have such a privilege and again for the great idea of this valuable cooperative learning experience. They manage to leave the class satisfied and in one piece, and no one’s even started any arguments. Yet.

By the time that evening Harry and Ron have made it through Divination, as bitter as they may be about their overbearing workload, they’re still chatting quite animatedly about the prospect of taking care of cute fluffy creatures. Harry is definitely apprehensive of their claws and teeth and likelihood to cause him all sorts of trouble, but he’s looking forward to being able to pull the kitten card in Trelawney’s lessons. Hermione joins them with the kitten crate, flushed and happy, and they head in for dinner.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” comes a shout from behind them. All three of them turn to Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy, who brandishes a newspaper in their faces, looking inordinately smug. “Your dad’s in the paper!”

Harry is aware that everyone in the Entrance Hall can hear them, and the people closest are already turning to watch. He clicks his tongue and crosses his arms.

“Listen to this!” Malfoy grins, and begins to read.

“Are you a child, Draco?” Blaise drawls quite suddenly from behind Harry and Ron. He leans around them and rescues Charlie the niffler from Ron’s near-whiteknuckled grip. He strokes her snout and sets her on Ron’s shoulder before walking over to read the paper (silently) over Malfoy’s shoulder.

“Oi!” Ron yelps, indignant and angry. “All of you can piss off!”

“Oh Blaise, why would you ruin my fun?” Malfoy snickers.

“What an arse,” Harry sneers. Hermione shoves the kitten crate into Harry’s arms and storms up to them, snatching the Prophet from Malfoy’s hands. Harry and Ron try to read the article, but she has to fight off Malfoy’s annoying grabbing.

“Hand it over, Granger, I wasn’t finished.” Hermione holds it to her chest. 

“I’m sure you have several horrible things to say about Ron’s family, you insufferable bastard, but you can keep those to yourself,” she spits. Several people gasp, all of them surprised by her outburst. “If you  _ want  _ me to respect you, you’re going entirely the wrong way about it!”

“Why would I ever want something as terrible as that?” Malfoy asks with disdain. He glances at Harry briefly.

_ “Because, _ you  _ prat, _ we’ll be working together for the foreseeable future raising a litter of kittens. I don’t know about you, but  _ I  _ don’t want to spend the entire time waiting to rip each other’s guts out!”

Professor Moody takes the ensuing moment of stunned silence to storm past them and into the Great Hall.

“Are you all done causing a fuss?” he demands in his gruff, grating voice. Hermione, good on her, doesn’t shrink away, but holds Malfoy’s stare until he flounces off to find a place at the Slytherin table.

“Well done, Miss Granger,” McGonagall whispers to her as she passes with her arms full of books, and Hermione can’t seem to suppress her proud little smile.

“Bloody hell, ’Mione,” Ron says. “That was brilliant.”

“It was nothing,  _ Ronald,” _ she replies, still smiling. “I’m just fed up of all his snot-nosed preening.”

“He does need taking down a peg or two,” Fred Weasley agrees, winking at her as he ambles past next George and Lee Jordan.

Dinner is an excitable hour of discussing Hermione’s triumph over Slytherin, despite her hasty retreat to the library five minutes in.  _ An eventful Monday indeed, _ Harry agrees, wondering about Madam Pince’s thoughts on noisy kittens in her sanctuary.

On Tuesday morning, Harry retrieves the kneazles from a tired-looking Hermione. 

“Good luck,” she tells him, and wanders off immediately to find breakfast. 

When they get to the Great Hall, he realises that all of the fourth years they know have similar dark circles beneath their eyes. He overhears Seamus and Dean discussing the Triwizard tournament quite animatedly with Lee, but is too tired himself to bother joining in. Harry instead helps himself to cornflakes and peeks inside the crate at his side. There seem to have been several modifications made since he last saw them; little hidey-hole chambers in the walls next to scratching posts and climby-things and toys. Hermione has even added a leather handle lengthwise over the crate to carry it more easily. 

He turns to thank her and finds her nearly asleep in her scrambled eggs. She hums in recognition and pats Harry on the knee.

“’S okay Harry,” she mumbles.

Harry is beginning to feel a rather strong sense of foreboding.

As promised, all of their teachers are fully aware of their new charges, and as expected, are not even a little easier on them for it. Harry finds himself dangling the feather of his quill into the box during History of Magic and not even pretending to pay attention. Phobos, with his white speckles on a glossy black coat, leaps and sprints after the feather alongside little white-grey Wandle. They accidentally trample Snuffs and Avennia as they do so, and they swipe at them as they all wriggle about.

In Potions, Hermione is met with the shortsightedness of her excited planning: for both she and Malfoy to be able to brew adequately, they need to work together to look after the kneazles. As they had agreed, Hermione takes the crate from Harry and turns, pained expression clear in her eyebrows and mouth, to sit at the bench next to Malfoy. As Harry watches them, he notices that Malfoy looks even less pleased to be there. He twitches whenever he hears a whisper, and glares at anyone looking his way. Snap soon strides into the room with his usual drama and sets them their post-holiday brush-up task, sneering at any little animals he can see.

“Weasley, do be sure to keep that  _ thing _ out of sight,” he drawls. “I don’t want to have to take you all the way up to the Hospital Wing in a bucket.” 

Ron glares, but persuades Charlie the niffler to take a nap in his robes pocket.

“Bloody menace,” he says to Harry under his breath.

“Absolutely,” Harry agrees. He glances back to Hermione again. She and Malfoy are both staring intently at their textbooks, with the crate on a stool between them. Harry begins to prepare his ingredients, and hopes, not for the first time, that shrinking solutions don’t work well if only splashed on human skin.

“There is a  _ cat  _ loose in the classroom,” Snape announces almost half an hour later. Murmurs begin to buzz like insects in the moment of surprised silence that follows. “Collect it now, if you don’t want any  _ severe repercussions, _ Miss Granger.”

Harry frowns, setting aside his idle stirring rod and looking around. 

“Mew!” sounds from below him, just before a slight tug on his robes.

“Avennia,” he mutters, bending down to her. She reaches out to bat his fingers with a paw and mews again. Harry smiles and picks her up carefully. 

“Harry,” Hermione hisses, frantic gaze on her potion. She’s right in the middle of something, he can see. Malfoy is ignoring her, but watching Harry. He raises an eyebrow in question. Harry, for a fraction of a second of confusion, has the urge to tilt a small smile at him.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” he hisses back, “I can take her.” 

“Are you sure?” She asks. 

“Absolutely.” 

Malfoy watches him a moment longer, but goes back to brewing. Harry cuddles Avennia and looks around the classroom until his timer chimes quietly. He tips her onto his shoulder and goes back to stirring.

“Mew!” Says Avennia, before he can put the rod into his cauldron. He frowns and looks at her. “Mew,” she says again, and leans down precariously to sniff at his well-shaken rat insides.

“Shit,” Harry whispers in surprise, scanning his recipe and tipping the required rat spleen and ‘splash’ of cowsbane into his potion. He then begins the stirring step. “Thank you,” he whispers to his kitten. She rubs her head against his cheek, and then climbs up to sit in his hair.

When Harry places a sample phial on Snape’s desk for grading, he can’t help but grin at his expression upon seeing both the satisfactory potion and the little kitten on Harry’s head.

Hermione gives him an odd look, but hands the crate back to him.

“All you need is an eyepatch and you’d be a very odd pirate,” Dean says. Harry laughs.

By dinner, Harry’s actually sort of managed to make a start on some homework, because he’s found little else to do while his friends are all preoccupied with being interesting, being good students, or looking after their baby creatures. Avennia, at some point, nestles in the hood of his outer robe. Harry sits up, several hours later, and almost falls backwards at the weight of it. He thanks Merlin for the back of the common room sofas being tall enough to catch him before he crushes her, and then finds two more kittens snuggled there in a heap. A sharp twang of panic reverberates through him and he jumps towards the crate. Luckily, all five remaining are still captive by it.

“I can’t believe he wanted to call a bloody kitten  _ Cassiopeia,” _ Ron huffs at dinner, spearing his sausages with unwarranted spite. “What a stuck up git.”

“Sounds believable,” Harry mutters, not even sure what to think anymore.

Hermione inhales sharply. “Actually, it makes quite a lot of sense, if you think about it.”

“Does it really, Granger?” comes Malfoy’s sardonic drawl. Harry starts and spins around, ready to jump in if needed.

Hermione lifts her head to regard him evenly. “Your mother, she has two sisters, doesn’t she? Bellatrix Lestrange and Andromeda Tonks.” Malfoy lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t correct her. Hermione continues. “Cassiopeia: a northern constellation most clearly visible in the autumn, also mythological queen of Aethiopia; unrivalled in beauty, she had a daughter she called Andromeda. Daughter Andromeda,  _ suggesting  _ sister of Narcissa. Now I neither know nor care for the name of your grandmother, but it appears to line up.”

Malfoy curls his lip but glances to the ceiling before he acknowledges her reasoning. “Cassiopeia is classically hubristic and self-serving, and sooner sacrificed her daughter than herself,” he snaps. “The constellation is a representation of her torture chair, hung in the heavens by Poseidon himself.” Half of the people gathered in the Great Hall are watching them with anticipation, and each one of them seem to be shifting ever closer. Malfoy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “But yes,” he sneers. “Congratulations, Granger, you’ve managed to stick your unwelcome nose yet again where it does not belong and turn up an approximate solution.”

“Then maybe,” Hermione retorts, “you should work on your predictability.”

“Maybe  _ you _ should mind your own business.”

“Okay, but why’d you name the others  _ Phobos  _ and  _ Asclepius _ ? _ ” _ Ron asks, oddly apathetic to their low-simmering animosity.

Malfoy balks a little, blinking rapidly as he watches Ron for… Harry doesn’t even know. He’s just as confused, in all honesty. 

“So Granger can name her cats as awfully as Marcassin and Wandle, yet I am not allowed to give them flattering names, suitable for their precedence?”

“To be fair, the names I chose weren’t that great, either,” Harry mumbles.

“My only problem with  _ you  _ is how I fear for the future self-esteem of Snuffs.” 

Malfoy sighs in an uncharacteristic display of tolerance. Harry trades disbelieving looks with Hermione, but she merely employs the raised eyebrows of  _ well, that’s… a thing, _ and takes a deep breath.

“We’ll agree to disagree then, shall we?” she offers.

“If we must,” Malfoy replies simply, and stalks off. 

It feels, in that moment, as if all of the nosy buggers eavesdropping on their conversation let out one collective breath before they return to their meals.

In the dorm that evening, Harry has the time of his life laughing at the chaos of misbehaving animals. He helps Seamus wrangle three tiny, hyper puffskeins and plonk them on top of Dean in bed, and retrieve Neville’s errant robe button from Charlie the niffler. Eventually, they all get into bed, and Harry is swiftly rewarded by karma with a jolting awakening nigh two-fifteen the next morning. Neville, apparently awake and reading by the moonlight on the windowsill, snorts at his grogginess, and leaves him to his suffering. Harry settles the eight boisterous kittens, eventually pulling the crate onto his duvet and relocating the containment charm to his bed curtains in an attempt to let his friends sleep. To no surprise whatsoever, Avennia is curled up on his pillow when he wakes up trying to avoid suffocating in her fur. Next to her are Cassiopeia, also asleep, and Rosanna, rolling around and yowling. 

“Hiding from the boys?” Harry asks. Avennia stretches, placing her paws (and claws) on Harry’s cheek. “I don’t blame you,” he admits, and gives up on sleep.

Unsurprisingly, he is one of the first awake, and first to the dining hall, and he feels pretty ready to drop. As soon as Malfoy appears, Harry strides over, placing the crate down on the bench at his seat at Slytherin.

“Good luck,” he grins, all teeth, and saunters back over to the Gryffindor table to flip unseeingly through his Charms textbook.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he takes back custody of his new fluffy friends is on Friday, the morning he sends off the letter to Sirius. 

“That was a _lie,_ Harry!” Hermione says quite sharply over breakfast, after he’s told them what he sent. “You didn’t imagine your scar hurting at all, and you know it.”

He rolls his eyes and hoists the crate into his lap. “And? I will not let him go back to Azkaban because of me.” Marcassin and Snuffs attempt to scale the walls to get to him, so he lifts them into his arms to cuddle. Hermione almost starts in on what was sure to be an earache of an argument, but Ron pokes her in the arm, mutters “Drop it,” and goes on with his breakfast. He has Leonard poking his nose out of his robe pocket, since he’s agreed with Zabini to take it in turns to make the project more of a partnership. With all of this sudden Slytherin tolerance, Harry would only be a little surprised if Ron told him he’d be going to hang out in their common room from now on.

That was a lie. Harry is fairly certain that he would never expect such words from his friend’s mouth in either of their lifetimes. 

Though, until that Thursday, he wouldn’t have believed a lot of things. But then Professor Moody had danced an enlarged spider around the room, tortured it, and then killed it, all directly beneath their noses. _Unforgivable curses,_ he said they’re called, so why is _he_ allowed to perform them whenever he feels like it?

On Saturday, Malfoy approaches Harry at the breakfast first. Honestly, it sounds like it could be the beginning to a bad joke.

“Has Wandle been eating properly?” Malfoy asks, sitting down and peering into the pit of fur. “He seemed to have lost his appetite when I had him Wednesday night.”

Harry frowns. “Hermione said the same. I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

“I told her,” he replies testily. Harry looks at him steadily.

“Well, I fed him a few bits by hand, and it seemed to encourage him to finish the bowl,” Harry says. “And everyone but Phobos seems to be using the litter tray. Clever, aren’t they.”

Malfoy snorts. “Maybe he’s afraid of it.”

“Very funny.”

Their first report was due in on Monday, so Harry handed his summary, which was rather more like a log of any and all activity, over to Malfoy to skim. 

“This is surprisingly in-depth,” he admits, handing it back. “I didn’t know you could tell who’s who through those smudgy old specs.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shoves his log into his bag. “I’ll just… Summarise this, yeah?”

“If you want to.” Malfoy takes the crate and finds his way back to his own table.

“What the hell was that?” Ron hisses, accidentally showering the table between them with crumbs.

“I don’t know, Ron. I really don’t.”

Apparently, Malfoy’s ongoing odd behaviour does not prevent him showing himself up in Hagrid’s last lesson before the half term. Harry, Ron and Hermione snigger among themselves all the way back up to the castle, more for the mortified look on his face than anything else. In the Entrance Hall they found themselves milling at the edges of the large crowd of students gathered there, attention drawn to a large sign providing reception at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron grins at his friends and ruffles their hair in an unappreciated, condescending manner as he cranes his neck to read it.

“It’s about the Tournament!” he says. “The… Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are arriving on Sunday, and we’re going to meet them before the feast!” 

“Only a week away!” says Ernie Macmillan, several bottle cap badges gleaming against his Hufflepuff robes. “I wonder if Cedric’s heard… I’ll go find him just in case!”

“Cedric?” Ron snorts.

“He must be entering,” Harry says. They begin to shove their way past the crowd, and he clutches the crate close to him.

“That idiot, Triwizard Champion?”

Hermione huffs. “Cedric’s not an idiot, you just don’t like him because he beat us at Quidditch. I’ve heard he’s a top student, _and_ he’s a Prefect.”

Ron narrows his eyes at the air of finality to her words. “You’re only defending him because he’s _good-looking,”_ he accuses. Harry hides a laugh in a sudden coughing fit.

“Been noticing his _good looks,_ have you?” she snarks. “And how dare you tell me I only value people for their looks!”

Ron catches Harry’s abrupt tickle-in-the-chest, letting out a cough that sounded awfully like _‘Lockhart!’_

“If you hadn’t been mooning over Krum all summer, I might not have so much of a good argument!”

“Blimey, Harry,” he mutters as they reach an empty corridor on the way to the Gryffindor Tower, “I think she’s trying to say she thinks I’m _queer!”_

Harry laughs, and throws an arm around his shoulders. “And we’d still love you regardless, Ron.”

Hermione giggles too. “There’s nothing wrong with it!”

Ron groans and lets his head loll back on his shoulders, as if pleading the ceiling to either send help or come crashing down to kill him. Together, Harry and Hermione manage to shove him through the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady’s rather hypocritical comments about the volume of their laughter.

The only topic of conversation for the next week is about the upcoming Tournament and their subsequent visitors. Everywhere Harry goes, rumours fly about supposed champions, the Tournament, and what the other students might be like.

The morning of the thirtieth finally arrives, though with fog, and Harry gathers the fast-growing kittens from Hermione as they head down to Sunday breakfast. 

“Woah,” he murmurs, gazing up at the decorations that have appeared overnight. The candles have been pushed towards the enchanted ceiling, and over each house table hangs a large silk banner: Gryffindor’s red with a golden lion, Hufflepuff’s yellow with a black badger, Ravenclaw’s blue with a golden eagle, and Slytherin’s green with a silver snake. The animals move, proud and graceful, as an imaginary draught ripples across them. Over the fifth table hangs the Hogwarts Crest, all four house insignia slotted together around a large golden H, moving freely from house to house. 

There are ruffles and drapings of silk lining the walls, dripping from sconces and adorning the arms of the gleaming suits of armour that now move without so much as a clank. Rich, thick tablecloths have been lain out over the highly-polished wood of the house tables, each in their corresponding colours, with embroidered table runners shimmering gold and silver beneath the platters they boast. The cutlery and crockery of each table have been embellished with their house mascot and the school crest. Matching napkins have delicate embroidery and are impressively presented.

Hogwarts is quite certainly dressed for business.

Harry, Ron and Hermione spy Fred and George at the end of the Gryffindor table and slide in to join them. Again, unusually, they are sitting apart from everyone and huddled over a messy piece of parchment.

“Bummer,” George shakes his head as they approach, “we’ll have to chase him up with this. We can owl it soon, or just shove it into his hand. Can’t avoid us forever.”

“Who’s avoiding you now?” asks Ron.

“Wish you would,” says Fred, irritated. Hermione snorts quietly, giggling behind her hand. 

Ron frowns. “What’s a bummer?”

“Having you for a nosy git of a brother,” George says.

“Have you had any more thoughts on how to enter the Tournament?” Harry asks.

“Well, we tried to ask McGonagall how the champions are chosen,” says George.

“She told me to shut up and finish transfiguring my raccoon into a textbook,” Fred gripes.

“Oh, which?” Hermione asks, clearly trying not to sound too interested. 

“Just our class one. Mine was full of bad cartoons about Snape, though.”

She shifts a little in her seat. “Could… Could you show me?”

Fred smiles. “Sure.”

“I wonder what the tasks are going to be,” Ron says. “I bet we could do them no problem, Harry. We’ve done all sorts of dangerous things before.”

“Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven’t.” George taps his brother on the head with a quill.

“Who are they?” asks Harry.

“Well, all of the school heads are on the panel,” Hermione tells him. All of them turn to look at her. She huffs. “Do none of you read _Hogwarts: A History?_ There was a fiasco with a cockatrice in 1792, but if you want to know more, then you can go and read it yourselves. Though, that book isn’t _entirely_ reliable; it’s more like a, a—A _Revised_ History! Or A Highly Biased and Selective History, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School!”

Harry braces himself for the incoming tirade, feigning occupation when Cassiopeia tries to latch her claws into his jumper sleeve to climb out.

“What are you on about?” Ron asks.

“House-elves!” she cries, and he winces. “Not _once,_ in over a thousand pages, does _Hogwarts: A History_ mention that we are all reaping the benefits of a hundred slaves!”

With Cassiopeia now safely on his shoulder, _claws away,_ Harry applies himself to his scrambled eggs.

“Oi, what’s all this about?” asks Fred.

“Hermione found out that Hogwarts has house-elves, and now she’s on the warpath,” Harry mutters.

“It’s unethical!” she insists. Some people were beginning to take a little notice of her near-shrieking, but were obviously and understandably reluctant to join a more active side of the campaign.

“Hermione,” George says, cutting her short, “have you ever been down to the kitchens?”

“Of course not,” she replies shortly. 

“Well, we have,” he tells her, tilting his head to indicate Fred. “Been down loads of times to nick food, so we’ve met them.” 

She frowns. “You have?”

“Yeah,” he says, “and they’re _happy._ For them, this is the best job in the world—”

“Because they’re uneducated and brainwashed!”

“Why do you think they’re uneducated?” Fred asks suddenly. She starts, gazing at him with wide eyes. “Did you know that house-elves are incredibly intelligent?” She shakes her head. “Okay, did you know that the way they use magic is completely different to wizards and witches?” She nods. “Right, well, maybe we should go and have a chat with them, eh?”

Hermione is stunned into a very, very rare silence. Harry grins, and George winks at him, though he too seems surprised by Fred’s generosity.

Just then, her reply, if she’d had one, was drowned out by the flutter and flapping of hundreds of pairs of wings. Harry grabs the letter Hedwig drops before it can land in his beans. He hands her some bacon and hastily opens the letter one-handed.

 _“Nice try, Harry,”_ he reads quietly to Ron and Hermione, once he’s sure Fred and George are no longer paying attention. 

“Why keep changing owls?” Ron asks when he’s finished.

“Hedwig stands out,” Hermione mutters, though her mind is clearly still stuck on other things. “If she keeps flying to Sirius, someone might notice. She’s hardly native, and a lot of people know that Harry has a snowy owl.”

Harry folds the parchment, shoving it up his sleeve. He’s happy, at least, to know that Sirius is somewhere nearby. At least he won’t have to wait very long to hear from him.

“So who’s that from, then?” George asks with a grin that screams trouble.

“No one,” he replies, stroking Hedwig’s plumage carefully. “Thanks Hedwig.” 

She hoots lethargically, dips her beak into his goblet of juice, and takes off again for a good long sleep at her perch.

“There’s no time like the present, I suppose,” Fred announces, having cleared his plate of syrupy pancakes. He stands and bows deeply to Hermione, who watches him skeptically. “Would you care to accompany me, Most Wonderful Hermione Jean of the prestigious Grangers?”

She narrows her eyes but places her fingers in his outstretched palm, clutching her overstuffed notebook to her chest.

“You’re mental,” Ron tells his brother. Fred pays him no attention, having leant down to talk quietly with Hermione, already leading her from the hall.

“It’s all part of the charm,” George says, but he’s watching them leave with an odd expression.

The castle is filled with a buzzing of excitement and anticipation all day. Everywhere one goes there’s gossip and conversation, and the whole staff is simultaneously more snappish and lenient than usual. 

Hermione returns to the Gryffindor common room just before lunch, sitting down and immediately putting quill to notebook. Harry sees several pages have been crossed completely through, and that someone else has also scribbled notes in several of the margins.

“How did it go, ‘Mione?” he asks. 

“Well, thank you,” she smiles. “We’re re-evaluating our plan.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, well. I’ve been made aware that we need to start smaller, to angle for appropriate pay, paid holiday, and the like.”

“The elves not want to be freed?”

“They rely on magic to survive,” she explains. “Mr Crouch letting Winky go was an abhorrent thing to do, with that in mind: he could have killed her, if she hadn’t ended up here. No one wants to hire a disgraced elf, because allowing them to live on their magic makes them too vulnerable to take the risk.”

“And this means…?”

“This means, Harry, that we’re going to solve the problem of an _abusive system._ We’re going to make house-elf abuse and exploitation prosecutable by law.”

“That sounds good,” Harry tries. 

She laughs. “Thank you. Now, I saw some of your team heading out to play Quidditch, so give me the cats and you can go join in.”

Harry, Ron and Ginny end up joining the four-a-side pick-up Quidditch game on the lawns with Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell. They’re met by Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang and Keeper Grant Page, and Hufflepuff Beater Maxine O’Flaherty. 

Harry, Katie, Grant and Ginny are losing 80-50 (but Harry has caught the snitch thrice more than Cho has), when they hear a cry from below.

“Quidditch?”

“Without us?” 

“That’s traitorous, that is!” 

Harry spirals slowly down and grins at the twins with their brooms hoisted up onto their shoulders. 

“Come and join us, then!” Ginny yells, and they’re kicking off before she’s finished.

“Potter!” someone else calls. Harry sighs and looks towards the castle. Malfoy is gazing up at them with studied indifference, about fifteen feet away. Next to him stands very annoyed Slytherin Chaser Cassius Warrington, and they also have their brooms. There must be something in the air.

“What?” Harry shouts.

“What have you done with the kneazles?”

“Hermione has them!”

He scoffs. “At least one of you has some brains.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Malfoy. Now, are you joining us or not?”

The git looks satisfyingly surprised.

“Oh, Cassie darling! Come play for _my_ team!” George cries, hovering over near his sister.

Cassius makes a show of rolling his eyes and doing exactly the opposite, flying straight over to Alicia, Ron, Maxine and Cho. Malfoy mounts his broom.

“We have three Seekers!”

“Oi, Malfoy, Chaser or Seeker?”

“I’ve played already, I’ll go Chaser!”

“Cheers, Chang!”

“Come on, Malfoy, you’d better win us this!” Ron shouts.

“Don’t worry Weasel,” Malfoy replies, smirking as he holds Harry’s gaze, “I’m hardly a pushover.”

Cho releases the snitch and the quaffle goes sailing into the air. Harry speeds upwards, chasing glints of gold, but glances sideways for only a second and loses it. Malfoy smirks and tilts his head. 

“Got your head on tight, Potter?”

Several times, Harry finds himself gazing at Cho instead of scanning the field. Once, he catches himself watching Malfoy, and quickly shakes himself. It’s always been Harry who’s better at spotting the snitch first, there’s no need to mark him.

By the time Madam Hooch is yelling at them to hurry up and get ready to greet their guests, Harry’s team is winning by a hair. Malfoy is, admittedly, a much better-matched opponent. Both of them have caught the snitch only once. 

There’s a tiny flash of gold to Harry’s left, and he wheels around immediately to go after it. Malfoy is at his side in an instant, low over his broom and grinning from ear to ear. Harry leans lower and pushes his Firebolt further. The wind rips through his hair and through his too-thin jumper, and it sets his skin ablaze. The snitch flits in front of them, dropping suddenly. Harry barely dips his broom handle to swoop gratuitously, and Malfoy corkscrews perfectly to drop below him. They close in, fizzing with adrenaline, arms outstretched. Malfoy tips towards him but he refuses to flinch, pushing his broom and reaching ever farther. Just as the tips of his fingers brush tiny golden wings, Malfoy lurches forward and closes his hand. 

He whoops, braking hard. Harry pulls up just short of overtaking him, turning to look. The scowl drops from his face as he takes in Malfoy’s look of glee, his windblown hair turned golden in afternoon light, and the glinting wings struggling to free themselves from his fist.

“Nice catch,” Harry says. Malfoy’s grin widens, and it softens his features, if only for a moment.

“That’s one more win for me, Potter,” he gloats.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry allows. “Good flying. Now let’s go before we’re late!”

They wheel around and shoot back towards their friends waiting for them on the lawns. Malfoy holds the snitch out as they land, and his team cheers.

“Congratulations, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Hooch says. Harry grins at Ron, scrunches his nose in apology to Katie, Grant and the Weasleys, and makes a rude hand gesture at Malfoy behind Hooch’s back. He cackles and returns it, kicking his broom up onto his shoulder as they wander towards the broom shed. 

For reasons unknown, George tries his level best to badger Warrington into giving him a congratulatory kiss. Fred and Maxine egg him on, and Malfoy and Ginny heckle from the back. Such a bizarre scene, Harry isn’t sure he’s been privy to before. The lot of them race back to the castle once they’ve stowed their brooms, stumbling and shoving and raucous. Ginny wins by a mile, leading the lions’ way up to the Gryffindor Tower. The seven of them duck behind large tapestries when they hear Peeves approaching, and giggle between themselves sneaking away. 

In the common room, Hermione looks at them pointedly from a sofa in front of the fire. She waits for Harry and Ron to shrug on their robes and hurry back down, shoves the crate into Harry’s arms and trots straight out of the portrait hole.

“She’s chipper,” Ron says.

“That’s a good thing, Ron.”

The Entrance Hall is alive with movement, despite heads of houses sorting their students into relative order. Someone elbows Neville in the side, and Seamus trips over his shoelaces into the back of Hufflepuff seventh-year Beatrice Haywood.

“Follow me, please!” calls Professor McGonagall. “First years to the front!”

“Glad we’re not them,” Ron mutters.

“Wouldn’t fancy it, no,” Harry agrees.

Down the castle steps and into the cold, crisp night they go. The earlier fog has blown over, and the moon is sharp and clear in the sky. Several hundred students shuffle amongst themselves, shivering with excitement and anticipation.

Ron checks his watch. “Almost six now,” he says. “D’you think they’re coming by train?”

“I doubt it,” says Hermione.

“By broom then?” Harry asks. He scans the stars for any sign of movement.

“I wouldn’t have thought so, from that far away.”

“Portkey?” Ginny asks.

“How many are coming?”

“Do you think they could apparate? Maybe under-seventeens are allowed to in other countries.”

“How many times, Ron? You can’t apparate in or out of the Hogwarts grounds!”

Harry is beginning to feel the chill seeping through his cloak, despite his shoulders being pressed up against his friends’. He keeps the kitten crate in front of him, smiling as they tumble around and sniff warily at the clamour outside of their sanctuary. He notices that Ginny and Hermione are shivering too.

“Aha!” Dumbledore says suddenly. “Unless I am mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons is fast approaching!”

Shrieks and yelps of “Where?! Where?!” and “Ouch Ron! That was my foot!” rise up around Harry. He grins and turns his head with the crowd. Arthur Weasley’s words from the World Cup campsite come floating back to him—”Always the same,” he’d said. “We just can’t resist showing off when we all get together.” 

“There!” shouts one of the older students. They wave their hand in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, and the whole school turns to look.

“Is it a dragon?” a first-year shrieks, before promptly falling into hysteria. A large shape does indeed loom over the horizon, dipping and weaving and growing ever larger as it nears.

“That’s no dragon—” yells Dennis Creevey, “that’s a giant ruddy house!”

Dennis’ guess is the best they get before the unidentified looming object draws close enough to be discernible. Rather than a house or a dragon, the Beauxbatons’ transport is a ginormous horse-drawn carriage, the horses of which are both winged and absolutely _terrifying_. Their hooves hit the ground with a minor earthquake, galloping tremendously past the astonished rows of students. The carriage comes crashing down behind its steeds, bouncing and rolling at an alarming pace. 

The pegasi—the closest match Harry can think of—can now be seen to all be taller-than-an-elephant, short-haired palominos. A single one of their stamping black hooves is easily bigger than Harry’s arm is long, and they snort and shake their heads furiously. Flaming eyes roll in glistening sockets, and wings with a span of the Gryffindor common room fold elegantly to their sides.

The carriage, pale blue and gilded with gold trimming, bears a coat of arms boasting two crossed wands sending out a trio of stars each. 

As soon as it comes to a stop the door opens. A boy wearing robes his school colours leaps down from the platform, fumbling inside the carriage for a moment before a set of huge stairs extends to the ground. He stands aside, and several people gasp. It instantly becomes clear why the set-up is of such great size. 

A woman taller than any Harry has seen before appears in the doorway, stepping down gracefully to meet them. She is, probably, not much taller than Hagrid, though taken aback as he is in surprise, Harry cannot help but think her giant. The light from the castle illuminates her figure and casts deep shadows in her wake. Her hair is a shimmering brown, falling delicately curled into a bob below her chin. Dumbledore begins to clap, and the rest of Hogwarts follows his lead. Behind this giant woman, the students of Beauxbatons are leaving the carriage.

She walks towards Dumbledore with a graceful smile, extending a hand laden with glittering jewellery.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he greets, barely stooping when he kisses her hand.

“Dumblédorr,” she purrs, “I ’ope I find you well?”

“Just excellent, I thank you.”

Madame Maxime waves her hand behind her. “My students.” 

A few dozen older teenagers now stand, shivering, in her shadow. They all wear the same thin, silken blue robes, and Harry notices that they have a much higher proportion of students wearing headscarves than Hogwarts does. They stare at the castle, some impressed and others apprehensive.

“’As Karkaroff not arrived?” their headmistress is saying.

“Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here any moment now.”

Dumbledore promises the safekeeping of her horses, and she is soon leading her students into the castle, away from the very real threat of frostbite.

“How big d’you think Durmstrang’s horses will be?” Seamus snorts, leaning forward.

“Any bigger and Hagrid won’t be able to handle any of them,” Harry says. “That’s if he hasn’t already been attacked by something.”

“D’you think it’s those blast-ended skrewts?” Ron asks. “They were looking on the large side on Monday.” 

Lavender makes a disgusted noise. “I do hope not!”

“Maybe they’ve escaped…” 

“Oh god, Ron! Don’t wish that on us,” Hermione hisses. Harry laughs behind his hand.

Even under their sensible cloaks, all of Hogwarts are beginning to shuffle their feet around in search of warmth. Harry can hear Parvati complaining to Lavender, and he silently agrees. The unsettling gigantic horses are still standing only about twenty feet away from them, snorting and snuffling around.

“Can you hear something?” Ginny asks suddenly.

“No,” Hermione replies, frowning.

Harry realises that there is, actually, a very odd and eerie noise drifting towards them. Hermione gasps quietly in recognition, and a rumbling starts up through the ground. Everyone returns to looking around eagerly as they had been before when—

“The lake!” yells Lee. “Something’s happening in the lake!”

From their vantage point at the foot of the castle, the whole school has a clear view of the disturbance in the water. No longer is its surface pristine and glassy, but bubbling and rippling quite disturbingly. Waves begin to wash over the shore, just as a gaping vortex appears in the centre. The water swells and churns, and a long, black pole begins to emerge from within. 

“It’s a mast!” Harry says to the others.

The protrusion is indeed a mast, followed in short order by the prow and deck of a beautiful wooden ship, the likes of which Harry has only ever seen in stories such as _Captain Pugwash._ Magnificently, the entire rig surfaces, and the water finds its equilibrium beneath it. 

It has a strange, skeletal atmosphere, as if raised long lost from the bottom of the ocean and returned to purpose. The rigging drapes aesthetically, functional but greying, and the portholes are filled with a misty light that makes the whole ship seem like it’s shrouded in fog.

Slowly, it drifts into the shallows, and at a hundred feet from shore they hear the splash of the anchor. A distant figure appears where Harry presumes the gangway should be. Even from so far away, they very clearly raise their arm, and a long, proud, wooden walkway lifts from the lakebed. It meets the ship and slopes gently down to land.

Someone to Harry’s left whistles loudly, and the spell of silence that had descended over the welcome party shatters. They can see the silhouettes of people moving past each porthole to disembark, and soon the Durmstrang landing party has climbed the hill to great applause.

From a distance the students had looked to be built much the same as Crabbe and Goyle, though nearer Harry can see that the majority of their bulk is thanks to the thick fur cloaks they shoulder. Each one is well kept and worn with pride, but a single sleek, silver pelt stands out from all the rest. A tall man with matching silver hair strides beneath it, right up to Dumbledore to take his outstretched palm.

“Dumbledore!” he calls. “How are you, my dear fellow? How are you?”

Whispers suddenly rustle like an energetic breeze through the gathered Hogwarts body. 

“Oh Merlin and Morgana both,” Ron whimpers. “It’s Viktor Krum!”

Harry stretches on his toes to see where Ron is looking. Sure enough, looking as surly and unimpressed as one could expect, is Viktor Krum.

Karkaroff, having been invited inside, calls him forward. He goes, and they lead the way into the castle.

“We’re going to be in the same place as _Krum_ for almost a year,” Ron is mumbling distractedly to himself. Harry sighs and shares a long-suffering look with Hermione.

But the fever that Ron had suddenly been afflicted with seems to be raging through the entire school. Lee is leaping up and down and pawing at Fred’s shoulder, and they pass a group of girls squabbling over the only writing implement they seem to have to hand: a bright red lipstick.

“Really!” Hermione huffs loudly, smacking Ron upside the head when he, too, asks Harry if he has a quill.

“They’re all up in my bag,” Harry says, amused.

The Great Hall, much to their surprise, is empty when they file in. Hermione points out the four extra seats that Filch is maneuvering into the place settings at the head table, two of which are soon filled by Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff. Their students, however, are nowhere in sight. Harry picks up Avennia and plops her on his shoulder.

Once seats are taken, an expectant hush falls over the congregation. 

With startling timing, a choir of beautiful voices fills the hall. Students in blue satin robes appear at the doors and proceed serenely into the hall, leaving a corridor between two single-file lines. Dancers and gymnasts promptly spin and swirl into the gap, flowing like water in the enthusiastic chorus. The dancers are led by an incredibly pretty witch with a flickering sheet of platinum hair who puts Harry instantly in mind of the veela from the World Cup. Maybe she is in some way related, with the gentle way she now glows, attracting the attention of mostly everyone, but most of all the very rudely-leering boys. Harry imagines that, in such a position, she has taken up a role of leadership much the same as Krum. Hogwarts doesn’t have such a figure, he thinks. That is unless you count Gryffindor’s Weasley twins, Hufflepuff’s Cedric Diggory, or even Slytherin’s Draco Malfoy; which is to say, they haven’t _one_ figurehead leader. (Harry does not even think to include himself on such a list, despite his regrettable fame.)

Beauxbatons ends their display in front of the head table, bowing deeply with a flourish of silk and fluttering paper flowers. Harry watches one float down in front of him to land on the new tablecloth. They’ve somehow matched the colours to the houses, and he must admit that it’s rather impressive.

A roaring round of applause shakes the walls. The students smile and turn to take their seats. Harry’s eyes follow those making their way over to the Slytherins, somehow surprised when the probable-veela sits herself right between Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.

As soon as they’re settled, and the chatter has died down again, a clash of rhythmic beats starts up. The students of Durmstrang stride into the hall, beating their staffs against the flagstones to their chant, sending up small showers of yellow sparks. After several seconds, they bend to the floor and sprint forwards. Some stoop to crouch while other leap and somersault over them, falling into a roll to clear the path. The front runners twirl their staffs and hold them to their mouths to blow fire over the heads of the seated students. It takes the different forms of magical creatures twisting and winding and thunderous.

Krum strides in last of all, all the way down the rows of students. He stops and kneels front and centre, his head bowed to the head table. Once the remaining students have followed his lead, a second peal of applause rolls through the hall.

Once again, chattering breaks out while they choose their seats. Ron tries to shuffle Hermione over to make room, but his hero sits himself firmly at the Hufflepuff table. 

After a moment, Professor Dumbledore stands. A third silence brushes through with the expectation of a speech. Smiling knowingly, he instead raises a hand.

A shimmering blue magical shield swishes over everyone’s heads and forms a tunnel down the centre of the hall. Into one end steps sixth-year Roger Davies from Ravenclaw, just as Slytherin’s Adrian Pucey steps into the other. They stride towards each other, wands out, and bow, turning and taking their steps away. The school choir stands and launches into an epic ballad. Pucey and Davies take their stances, shout once, and throw themselves into their duel. 

They trade spells with lightning reactions and audacious flair, bouncing the audience’s attention back and forth like a taped Wimbledon match on fast-forward.

Beside Harry, the Weasley twins stand suddenly, each lobbing something straight up into the air. Two large sparks zip from their palms across the hall, leaving a trail of shifting colours as they arc and swirl, crack and spark and set off the occasional firework.

 _Mssrs Fred and George Weasley_ _Graciously_ _Welcome you to Hogwarts!_ Reads the message they spell.

“Dumbledore himself requested we help out,” Fred mutters to Hermione proudly.

The sparks don’t peter out as expected but zoom up and down the house tables. Everyone seated beneath gasps and giggles as they bounce around painting the sparkling image of a high-class masquerade ball over their heads.

Hermione smirks and stands up herself. She climbs onto the bench, mirrored astride the shield-tunnel by none other than Dra— _Draco Malfoy!_

With a pretty swish of her wand, she conjures several gallons of water and threads them over the middle of the duel. Malfoy waves his hands about, guiding it with her help. 

The water twists, tornado-like, and grows both towards the floor and the ceiling like roots and branches of a tree. Harry realises, a second late, that a tree is exactly what it is. The branches shatter into an explosion of leafy canopy, throwing rippling shadows onto all four walls. 

Every single face stares at different parts of the display in utter awe. The duel is still ongoing, only becoming more and more outrageous as the song ramps up. The spells they use are not low-level, nor are they easy to dodge, but the two barely seem to break a sweat.

On the final note, Davies and Pucey slash their wands as one, and the whole visage vanishes in an explosion of imaginary water.

The six artists and the choir bow graciously to the astonished faces of their friends and reclaim their seats.

 _“Blimey,”_ Ron breathes. Harry knows how he feels.

The Ravenclaws and Slytherins get to their feet to cheer. Not to be outdone, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff scramble to follow, leaving their guests looking thoroughly taken aback. Hermione gets many claps on the back, and goes quite red with pride.

“Settle down, settle down!” Dumbledore calls.

“Never!” jeer Fred and George, grasping the high of success with both hands. Harry takes his seat and makes sure he still has all eight cats. Avennia mewls in his ear and tries to chew his hair.

“A most extraordinary performance we have seen tonight,” Dumbledore continues when the fuss settles. “I must commend you all on your incredible talents and flair for the dramatics. Now, I welcome all of you, ladies, gentlemen, ghosts, and particularly _guests,_ to our humble Hogwarts School this evening. Please be sure make yourselves at home and enjoy your stay to the fullest. The tournament will be officially opened post-feast, so I say: dig in!”

As usual, the table in front of them suddenly finds itself laden with a multitude of dishes. It seems the house-elves have really outdone themselves tonight, with the array of foods Harry leans in to look over. There are pies and casseroles and escallops and pasta dishes and potatoes done every which way, and he’s fairly certain that no two platters are the same and half of them he’s never seen before. Looking over to the other tables, he sees even more mouth-watering foods.

“What’s that?” Ron asks, pointing at some kind of fish stew.

“Bouillabaisse,” Hermione says.

Ron frowns. “Bless you.”

“No,” she laughs, “it’s _French._ I had it over the summer last year. It’s very nice.” 

“Shall I try some?” 

“It’d do you some good.”

At her recommendation, both Harry and Ron drop a spoonful of the stew next to the rest of what they’ve piled on their plates. The golden lion handle of the serving spoon roars under Harry’s hand, making him jump.

“All right, Potter?” a recognisable somebody drawls behind him. “Cat got your fingers?”

Harry looks up at Malfoy in irritation. He stands smirking over them with the veela girl from before on his arm. She snorts indelicately, and he looks about to preen.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “What incredible wit you have, Malfoy.” 

The girl says something to him in French, and he responds in kind, but not kindly.

“That was rude,” Harry says off-handedly, pretty sure that he’s just been called a variant of stupid, though he isn’t too sure of… _Attraint?_ _Attrayant?_ Malfoy snorts. “I didn’t know you could speak French, anyway.”

“I can do all sorts of things,” he says, “but it’s not like you’ve taken the time to find out, is it?”

“Be nice,” the girl reprimands. Her voice is bright and confident. “May we ’ave this?” she asks Hermione, pointing to the Bouillabaisse. “It is one of my favourites.”

Everyone around them has fallen swiftly and suspiciously quiet.

“Of course.” Hermione smiles, picking up the dish and handing it to her. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you very much!” she grins. “I am Fleur Delacour, it is nice to meet you.”

“Hermione Granger,” says Hermione.

“Ron Weasley,” says Ron, sort of, because he’s halfway through his mouthful of pie and also gazing up at her in shock.

“Harry Potter,” says Harry. Fleur disentangles herself from Malfoy to shake each of their hands. He looks satisfyingly put-out.

“What?” she asks him. “I want to say ’ello to your friends.”

Malfoy’s eyes go wide and beside Harry, Hermione chokes. “We’re not friends!”

“No?” she asks. “Then why did we come all the way over ’ere?”

Flustered, Malfoy doesn’t answer. “We’re going back,” he mutters instead, taking her arm and pulling her gently away.

“See you later!” she calls over her shoulder, balancing the plate in her other arm to wave.

 _“Bloody hell,”_ Ron mumbles.

“Bloody _hell,”_ Ginny agrees from across the table.

“Close your mouths,” Hermione snaps. “You look like particularly disgusting goldfish.”

Ron’s mouth snaps shut, the view down his gullet going with it.

“She’s a _veela!”_ Ginny hisses.

“Of course she isn’t,” Hermione says, though looks unconvinced. 

Ron scoffs, indicating the trail of slobbering gazes. “I’m telling you, that’s not normal. They don’t make ’em like _that_ at Hogwarts.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Harry hazards, focusing on cutting up his roast potatoes. Hermione chuckles and pats his arm.

“What?” 

“Oh, nothing.”

“Yeah, right. Like I believe that.”

Harry eats what feels like enough for two and then some, and then the desserts turn up. Ron tries to attract Fleur over by placing pretty sweets in her line of sight, but she appears to be quite content with the multitude of desserts she has at the Slytherin table.

With the golden plates eventually scraped clean, Dumbledore takes to his feet again, coming to stand at his lectern. The hall buzzes with excitement and quiet chattering.

“The moment has finally come!” he announces. “A short explanation, before I bring in the casket, and the Triwizard Tournament can begin!”

 _Casket?_ Harry looks askance at his friends, but receives shrugs all around.

“I would first like to introduce Mr Bartemius Crouch, head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation,” he pauses for a polite but sparse applause, “and Mr Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports!” Ludo Bagman gains a much more enthusiastic reception, which he receives in good humour. Harry frowns at the pinched and stoic Mr Crouch and is wholly understanding of why.

“Over the past few months, Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch have worked tirelessly to bring us this most esteemed event. They will be joining myself, Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff on the panel of judges.”

A ripple passes through the students, in which the wake is as still as stale. Dumbledore smiles, and waves to Filch, lurking at the back of the hall. Filch scrambles to open the huge doors, and a tall wooden chest glides through. Dumbledore lowers his hand, and it sets itself on the floor in front of him.

“The three tasks that our three champions will complete have been decided. Mr Crouch and Mr Bagman have already examined the instructions for each challenge and made the necessary arrangements. Throughout the year, our champions will be tested; by magical skill, problem solving, or ability to cope with danger, these tasks are designed to bring one to one’s very limits, and possibly beyond. It is not a challenge to take on lightly.

“One champion will be chosen from each school. They will be scored on how well they perform during each of the Tournament tasks, and whoever ends with the highest score will win the Triwizard Cup.”

At that moment, the gravity in the room seems to be drawing each and every person towards Professor Dumbledore.

“I shall now introduce you to our impartial judge, the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore steps towards the casket and taps the very top with his wand. It melts away, falling like a curtain. Inside is a tall stone goblet, carved intricately with patterns too small for Harry to see. It would look right at home in Hogwarts, with all the gargoyles and statues, except for the bright blue flames licking around its rim. They stand tall, almost as tall as the goblet itself, moving in a peculiar manner. Almost… Sentient. 

“Anyone who wishes to enter the Tournament need only write their name on a piece of parchment and drop it into the goblet. It shall be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, to be easily accessible, and aspiring champions have twenty-four hours during which to submit themselves. Tomorrow night, the goblet shall choose whomever it deems worthy to compete for each school. 

“I shall _insist_ that you do not try to enter if you are still underage.” Dumbledore looks out over all of them with an especially keen eye. “There shall be a line in place that you will not be able to cross. Entering this tournament means entering a legally binding magical contract. If you are chosen, you _must_ see the tournament through, and I must reiterate the weight of the choice you are making: these games are not for the faint-hearted. I beg of you, make sure you are prepared to perform to what is asked of you before you enter.”

Every face gazes up at the old Headmaster in dead silence. He smiles.

“On such a note, I think it is time for bed. There shall be no lessons tomorrow, owing to the excitement of the contest. I bid you all a goodnight, and sweet dreams.”


	3. Chapter 3

Harry, Ron and Hermione, despite their early start, are not the first down to breakfast. Lots of students mill about, chattering in the Entrance Hall. Some are still carrying their food from breakfast. Benches have been placed around the walls and by the Great Hall, which is where they find most of their friends already gathered.

In the centre of the floor is the stone Goblet, imposing and looming over its gathered audience. Around it is a thin golden circlet of light on the floor. People skirt the line and peer towards it.

“Anyone put their names in yet?” Ron asks an excitable third-year.

“All of the Durmstrang lot,” she says, “they all came marching in, all impressive-like, and dropped their names into it. Haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet, though.”

“I don’t blame them,” Harry mutters. “I bet they did it last night so they wouldn’t have an audience. What if it gobbled you to cinders just for daring?”

Seamus laughs and launches into his in-depth analysis of possible Hogwarts champions. Exhausted by the well-practised argument, Dean sits next to him sighs and lets him talk.

Soon, a familiar pair of whooping voices come careening down the marble staircase.

“We’ve done it!” Fred Weasley cheers, smiling wickedly. 

“Underage my arse!” George Weasley agrees.

Lee Jordan, running between the twins, has a huge grin on his face. “Let’s go!”

A cheer goes up from the gathered spectators as they hold up the tiny phials of a milky blue substance. The three take their victory lap and come to a stop in front of the applauding Gryffindors. 

“It’s not going to wo-ork!” Hermione sing-songs, closing her book between her knees, but she’s not without a small smile herself.

“Oh yeah, Granger?” George challenges. He and Fred hop the bench to leer over each of her shoulders.

“That age line is  _ Dumbledore’s,” _ she explains with no little condescension. “Something as primitive and pathetically dim-witted as an ageing potion isn’t going to fool it.”

“But that’s just the thing,” says Fred. “It’s because it’s so pathetically  _ dim-witted  _ that no one would think to have to rule it out!”

They stand abruptly, and he winks at her. The three clink phials.

“Bottoms up!” they shout, and tip them back.

As they run over to the Goblet Harry sees her pick up her book again, but she only hides behind its pages to watch them. Harry smiles and turns back towards the spectacle. 

They line up around the rim of the age-line.

“Oh come on, I’ll go first,” says Fred, and leaps across. Nothing happens, and he turns to watch George follow him over. Ginny whistles, and people start to applaud and shout.

Just as Lee is about to step over the line they hear a loud sizzling noise, and the twins are flung from the ring. They land painfully several feet away, and within moments a white curly beard is growing rapidly on each of their chins. 

They sit up and look at each other, pointing and gaping.

“You said—!” 

_ “You _ said!”

The Entrance Hall fills with chanting and jeering as the two tumble across the floor. Harry joins the Gryffindors gathered around them, clapping and shouting and cheering them on. With a glance behind him he catches Hermione watching with an amused, bright smile before she ducks her head back into her book.

“I did warn you,” Dumbledore’s voice booms over them. Everyone freezes and turns to look into the Great Hall. Dumbledore stands between the doors dramatically, gazing out at them.

He smiles at Fred and George, who have since stopped struggling. “I suggest you go to see Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to two young women who had the same idea, though I must admit the beards are quite becoming of you both.”

Lee, howling with laughter, picks them up off the flagstones and hauls them off to the hospital wing. With their entertainment gone, the crowd splinters back to their previous activities.

Overnight, the decorations in the Great Hall had been added to generously. Clusters of bats flutter around the enchanted ceiling  _ (“D’you think Snape’s up there?” Ron snorts) _ and stacks of carved pumpkins climb the walls and leer from every crevice. Most of the drapings have been covered with glittery black spiders’ webs, and all of the tableware has been charmed to look like it’s dripping with blood.

“I heard Warrington’s gone in for it,” Dean says when they sit down to eat. “Looks like a sloth, that guy.” 

“Oh god, we can’t have a  _ Slytherin  _ champion,” Harry groans. 

Ginny scoffs. “I don’t think George would mind, at this rate.”

“Speaking of,” Hermione cuts across, “where’s Malfoy? Harry needs to hand over the kneazles.”

“Dunno.”

“Haven’t seen him.”

Seamus rolls his eyes and continues. “All the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory and how wonderful a champion he’d make. He’s more like a mascot if you ask me; I wouldn’ta thought he’d want to risk his face.”

“Well it’s a good thing no one did ask you, isn’t it?” Hermione teases. “Oh, look!”

They follow her gaze towards the doors where Angelina is walking in with an embarrassed flush and grin.

“I did it!” she announces. “I just put my name in!”   
“You’re kidding! Well done!” Ron thumps her on the back.

“So you’re seventeen?” Harry asks.

“Do  _ you  _ see a beard?”

“Of course she is!”

Angelina smiles. “I had my birthday last week.”

“Oh!” Harry says. “I would’ve got you something if I’d realised!” 

She waves him away. “Course not, it’s fine. Just exciting, you know?”

“We do—I’m really glad someone from Gryffindor’s entering!” Hermione says. “I really hope you get it!”   
“Thank you!” Angelina reaches out and hugs her tightly in her elation.

“Much rather you than Pretty-Boy Diggory!” Seamus says happily, ignoring the glares they get from Hufflepuff.

“What should we do today?” Ron asks through the remains of his toast as they leave the hall. “After we find Malfoy of course. I wonder if he’ll be with Zabini?”

“We haven’t gone to visit Hagrid in a while,” Harry says.

“That sounds nice!” says Hermione. “Do you think he’d like to join S.P.E.W? I think I have a badge here…” she shuffles around in the pouches and zip folders of her little notebook before retrieving a couple of rattling badges. “Got them! Oh…”

It looks like they don’t need to go looking for Malfoy, after all. On a bench at the far side of the Entrance Hall are him, Parkinson, Zabini, Nott, and Fleur Delacour. At the same time, the rest of the Beauxbatons students who aren’t already inside come clicking through the great doors.

_ “Aligner, s'il vous plaît!”  _ instructs Madam Maxime. Harry watches Fleur pat Malfoy’s wrist and rise to join them, whispering in the ear of a girl in a pale lilac headscarf who seems to have been waiting for her. One by one they step into the circlet and drop their slips of parchment into the Goblet. Every time, the flames turn bright colours and spit sparks, only to die down a second later. Harry doesn’t know if there’s any kind of correlation between the colour and the submission. He sidles around the hall to Malfoy’s newly-vacated side.

“So should I be asking how it is that you’re so close to the Beauxbatons kids already?”

Malfoy looks up at him with that sharply arching eyebrow of his. “Is it not suffice enough to put it down to my endless charm and good looks?”

“She’s a family friend,” says Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy scowls and pinches her knee between his nails.

“I showed ’im around my school when ’e visited,” says Fleur herself, having returned with the girl in lilac.

“Congratulations on entering,” Hermione tells her.

“Thank you!” she smiles. 

“Anyway, Malfoy, these are yours for the day.” Harry sets the crate down on the bench. He reaches in to scratch Wandle and Avennia behind the ears.

“Oh, mon dieu!” he hears Fleur whisper.

“Trop mignon!” her companion whispers back.

He smiles at them. “Would you like to meet them?”

“Please!” says Fleur. “Where are my manners? This is Sara.”

Malfoy picks up Cassiopeia and hands her to Sabba. “Nice to meet you,” she greets, cradling the cat to her chest. Fleur takes Phobos from Harry.

“I’m Harry.”

“Hermione.”

“Ron Weasley.” Thankfully, Ron has mostly lost the starry-eyed, slightly drooling look he’d had last night.

“Weasley,” Zabini says. “Would you like to swap? Charlie has been biting my fingers all morning.”

Ron scrambles to retrieve Leonard from his hood. “Sure. I’ll warn you, this one’s been a right menace.”

Pansy somehow still looks as pristine as ever with sooty-pawed Asclepius swatting at her robes.

“We were going to head down to Hagrid’s so…” Harry trails off, preoccupied with Avennia climbing onto Marcassin to get over the crate rim.

“Take her,” Malfoy tells him. He picks her up and plonks her into his hands. He picks up Marcassin too, holding him out to Hermione. “You might as well talk to him about how it’s going.”

Distantly, Harry is aware of Ron asking Fleur what they plan to do if they aren’t chosen.

“Would you like to come with us?” he blurts. Hermione’s head snaps around to look at him, and Malfoy frowns.

“That’s twice you’ve invited me to something, Potter. Anyone would think you’re being  _ nice. _ ”

Harry bristles. “All right then, if you’re going to be like that. I was only thinking we’re doing this project  _ together,  _ that’s all.”

Parkinson sighs. “Stop being so difficult, Draco. Repeat after me: ‘Yes please, Potter, I would very much like to join you and do nice things with you and your friends.’ See? It’s not so hard.”

Malfoy pinches her knee again, but she only smirks. 

“Would you mind?” he asks. Harry glances to Hermione, who looks, for once, speechless. “I think it may make him feel better if he knows I’m not actively trying to kill his friends.”

“Sure.” 

Zabini invites himself to “tag along” with Ron, so the five of them set off down the hill to Hagrid’s with eight magical cats and two furry shiny-thing detectors.

Harry runs up the steps to the front door and knocks loudly.

“It’s abou’ time!” Hagrid shouts over Fang’s booming barking. He flings open the door, and the jaws on the lot of them make towards the ground. “I was beginnin’ to think yeh’d forgotten where I live!”

“Sorry Hagrid,” Hermione says faintly, “we ended up a little busier than expected.”

Hagrid, it seems, has dressed to impress. He’s in his best (and ugliest) hairy brown suit, with a garish yellow and orange checked tie. It isn’t just his clothing that has suffered an attack, but it looks like he has also attempted to tame his hair; it’s dark and shiny and…  _ wet-looking _ with what appears to be axle grease. By the looks of it, he’s tried to tie it back into a ponytail— _ like Bill _ , Harry thinks—but with so much there has split it into two. Unfortunately, the look does not suit him very well at all.

“Hagrid, what did you do to your hair?” Hermione asks.

“Oh,” he says, reaching up as if to touch it and then thinking better of it. “I thought I’d see what I could do with it. Did it work?”

“Er…” 

“Well…”

“Are you three his friends or not?” Malfoy speaks for the first time since they’d set out, making them jump.

Hermione shakes herself and grimaces. “Honestly Hagrid? Not really.” Hagrid’s hand falls back down, as does his smile. “But you know,” Hermione continues, “We could always help you! I know all sorts of hair-calming spells, even if they don’t always work on mine…”

“Yeh’d do that for me?” Hagrid asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Harry says. Not that he’d be of much use, really.

“We came to chat and show you how we were getting on,” Ron tells Hagrid when he looks askance to their Slytherin partners. 

“I see, I see. Well, come on in, make yerselves at home.”

Harry has no idea what to expect from Zabini, but Malfoy, shockingly, manages to keep his opinions to himself and his expression genial. Hermione has Hagrid sit on a stool in the middle of the room once he’s finished making them all tea. She puts Marcassin on the table next to Avennia, and they stretch out in the sun.

“I’m going to take out these ties here, is that all right?” she asks.

“A’ course, Hermione, you know I trust you.” 

“…Ron, could you come and hold this section here, yes… Thanks…”

“This bit?” 

“Oh!”

“If you move this here, it’s easier to get at.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”   
After about five minutes of good work, Hagrid’s hair looks mostly-brushed and actually almost manageable. The best part is, it doesn’t look  _ bad _ this time. Beside Harry, Zabini sits serenely sipping his tea, but Malfoy watches the whole time with a frown and a restlessly jiggling leg.

“Granger, may I please lend a hand?” he says after another few minutes, just when Harry’s wondering whether he’s going to burst.

Hermione stops and looks down at him from her podium on a second stool. Even to Harry his expression is openly earnest, with a thin veil over a look not dissimilar to hers when she’s itching to give the correct answer but trying to wait for everyone to catch up.

“It couldn’t hurt,” she says. “Hagrid?”

“Huh?” he snuffles, jerking out of a doze. 

“May I also help, Professor?” Malfoy asks, textbook polite.

Hagrid looks at Harry. Harry lifts his hands, quashing his bafflement, and tries to psychically convey  _ why not?  _ Hagrid nods.

“I don’ see why not.”

“Thank you.”

Slowly Malfoy takes out his wand. He moves clearly and visibly, looking over Hagrid’s hair with practised disinterest. He prods a few sections and swipes up and down until every strand slips into place and all of the remaining grease is gone. Once he steps back, Hagrid goes over to the mirror to take a look.

“Blimey, you three!” He pets the top of his head cautiously and grins. Harry finds himself smiling along with him. “Thank you ever so much.”

“Don’t thank me, Hagrid, it was all Malfoy,” Hermione says, surprising everyone.

“You were almost there, Granger, what you did was all right.” Malfoy nods and turns to her. “You ought to learn the spells more appropriate for your hair type. The reason the ones you have are causing you such strife is because they were built by fair-skinned witches obsessed with silly trends and uninterested in practicality. In fact—” Malfoy pauses, screwing up his face tightly in concentration. He flicks his wand and everyone (bar Zabini) jumps when a small tome appears with a pop. He holds it out to Hermione. “Here. Written by Grandfather Potter himself.”

Hermione takes it reverently, brushing her fingers over the cover and spine. Harry jerks and almost upsets his teacup.

“It’s  _ what?”  _ he splutters. Hermione jumps, nearly dropping the book. Harry blinks. They’re all looking at him a bit startled. “Sorry, just—what was that?”

“The book?” Malfoy asks. “It’s a collection of—”

“No, no, what was that about my grandfather?”   
The silence stretches a few seconds longer this time. 

“Your grandfather, Fleamont Potter,” says Blaise Zabini, placing his large teacup on the table. “He’s famous. Maybe more than you.”

“He created Sleekeazy’s,” Ron nudges him when Harry still doesn’t respond. “The hair potion?”

“What?” Harry repeats, lost and silently begging someone to explain in Simple English.

Hermione clears her throat. “Your family fortune Harry. Your father’s father invented Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion for taming unruly hair, and it was so good it became universally famous. He sold the company before he died. It’s why you have such a large inheritance.”

“I never knew,” he says. It comes out far more quietly than he meant it to. “Why is it that everyone else always knows more about me than I do?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hagrid says. “Come over ’ere.”

Harry steps unsteadily over to Hagrid, leaning against his shoulder and accepting the hug gratefully. “The Potters have been amazing in many ways, but their best and happiest miracle is that they ’ad you.”

Harry laughs into the fuzzy brown coat. “I’m not so sure about that one, but thanks.”

“It’s true!” Hagrid chuckles. “Yer all brilliant—you, Ron, Hermione… Malfoy, Zabini. And yer doin’ wonders with the little tykes!”

Harry turns around to see that Marcassin has climbed the dresser and is sniffing inside a huge mug plenty big enough for him to sit in. Avennia has curled herself, impossibly tiny, onto Malfoy’s shoulder when he wasn’t looking. Harry is glad to turn the topic away from himself, and settles back down to finish his tea. Soon their conversation, as it is wont to do these days, turns to the Triwizard Tournament. 

“You jus’ wait!” Hagrid cries. “Jus’ wait, the five o’ you, you’ll never know what hit you! The firs’ task… Well, I’m not allowed to say.”

“Oh, go on Hagrid!” Ron urges.

“Don’ want ta ruin the surprise!”

“I still can’t believe your family didn’t tell you about it over summer,” says Malfoy.

“They weren’t supposed to,” Hermione huffs. 

Ron frowns. “Charlie was saying some very cryptic stuff, though. Something about seeing us soon. Do you think we’ll be sent home early? I don’t want that!” 

“I’m sure we won’t be, Weasley,” says Zabini. “Didn’t you say he works with dragons?”

“Yeah, in Romania. Pretty brilliant, really, if he’d ever shut up about them.”

“If I worked with dragons, I don’t think I’d shut up about them,” Harry muses. Charlie has an amazing job, in his opinion, and he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t talk about it. 

Dragons… Just imagine… 

“Wait!” Harry cries, stuck by a sudden thought. “You don’t think…?” 

“Think what?” Ron prompts eagerly.

Harry flicks his gaze up to Hagrid, who is looking at him with wary anticipation. Hermione is giving him That look of suspicion, and it almost gives him whiplash to look over and see Malfoy mirroring it perfectly.

“Never mind,” he says. “It was a silly idea anyway.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“As if none of the rest of them aren’t,” Malfoy mutters.

Harry snorts. “Nah, really. Anyway, Hagrid, tell us what the task is!”

They end up staying for lunch. It’s an incredibly strange affair, with Malfoy and Zabini sitting with them quietly but not silently, after Harry and Hermione had looked intently at them until they’d stopped trying to engineer themselves a way out. Harry doesn’t even know why he does it, just feels in that moment that it’s  _ important, _ that it’s a moment teetering on the edge of a precipice. All it needs is one good shove and something will happen. They will make of it what they will when they come to it.

Hagrid has made a stew that he claims is beef, but after Hermione unearths a talon of some sort in hers, she, Ron and Harry put down their spoons. Malfoy and Zabini finish their bowls, fully aware of the possibility of odd additions, and it does something funny to Harry’s stomach. He decides that he’s probably still hungry, and that he can’t be outdone by  _ Slytherins,  _ so he picks up the challenge and finishes his bowl. 

He only finds what looks like a small chicken bone.

Eventually, and somewhat inevitably, Hermione pulls out her overstuffed notebook. She outlines her plan carefully to Hagrid, obviously newly-affected by the views of the Hogwarts elves themselves. Hagrid listens with a frown, picking up on several things she mentions and questioning her further. Sooner or later he shrugs, says “Well if they’re all righ’ with it,” and pins the humorously small badge to his lapel. Malfoy shifts in his seat at the mentions of elf abuse and exploitation but remains silent.

When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, the six of them gather themselves and set out for the Halloween feast.

“Wait, Hagrid!” Malfoy yelps, watching him at his dresser. “Don’t spray that more than once!”

“Wha? Really?”

“What  _ is  _ that?” asks Ron.

“Erm, it’s  _ eau-de-Cologne,” _ Hagrid reads.  _ Eau-de-Cologne?!  _ Hermione mouths, incredulous. “Best be going, then!” 

Once outside, they quickly figure out the drive behind Hagrid’s strange behaviour. The large door of the powder-blue Beauxbatons carriage swings open, and out steps Madame Maxime. Behind her follow her students, chatting and laughing between themselves. Fleur waves and trots towards them, Sara on her arm. Hagrid seems to completely forget about them, walking right up beside the Headmistress.

“Unbelievable!” Hermione says. “He said he’d walk with us!”   
Zabini snorts. “Oh dear Merlin, he’s  _ interested _ in her.”

“Well if they end up having children they’ll be setting a world record,” Ron laughs. “I bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a ton!”

Malfoy makes a retching sound, and the rest of them laugh.

“Oh yes, how could I forget?” says Zabini. “Quick, someone get a bucket—Malfoy had his one and only straight experience when he decided he fancied my mother, and has been terribly averse ever since.”

Hermione stifles a giggle and Fleur, catching up with them, grins.

“’Ow precious.”

Harry frowns. “Straight?” 

“When you like women?” Ron supplies. Harry feels himself go a little hot. 

_ “I know that!”  _

“You’ve intrigued me now, Zabini! When the hell did  _ Malfoy _ have a crush on your  _ mum? _ ”

“Not a word, Blaise, you bastard.”

“Oh, I don’t blame him,” Zabini says lazily. “It happens to the best of men.”

“And ’e ’asn’t chased a single skirt since!” Fleur laughs.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Are you all done?” he demands. “Anyway, if that hadn’t done it, I’m sure Pansy would have managed to traumatise me into it sooner or later.”

“Ooh,” Hermione says, pointing out in front, “it’s them!”

Just ahead, Harry sees the students from Durmstrang striding into the Entrance Hall. Ron leans around people desperately to catch a glimpse of Krum, but he’s nowhere in sight. Inside, the enchanted ceiling swirls above the floating candles with inky blue and purple nebulae. There are no clouds skittering across the scene, but the sheer number of people crowded inside keeps the permeating illusion of cold from setting in. Malfoy and Zabini gladly split to make their way across to Slytherin with Fleur and Sara. Harry waves to Fred and George, freshly beardless, and hurries over to join them.

“I hope it’s Angelina!” says Fred. George hums agreeably.

“So do I!” Hermione chirrups, sliding into the seat next to him. “We’ll find out soon!” He laughs, and Harry grins at how her cheeks flush with excitement.

Most people eat quickly and impatiently, not as interested by the second feast when they could be talking about the Tournament. Many crane their necks to see the Goblet, replaced in the space in front of Dumbledore’s lectern, or to see if Dumbledore has finished eating yet. Mr Crouch and Mr Bagman are back, but Harry can’t care less—no, all he wants is for the plates to be cleared and to have the champions announced. He’s especially excited to find out about the first task since they’d spoken to Hagrid.

Eventually, finally, after what seems like hours, the plates are wiped clean. The noise in the hall spikes with the few whoops, cheers, and whistles that go up with the chatter. Dumbledore gets to his feet, and it drops to near-silence in record time. He spares not a glance for the terse and tense-looking Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, or the winking Ludo Bagman. Mr Crouch looks bored rigid, so Harry feels it safe to assume that he’s an utter bore himself.

“I think the Goblet is just about ready to make its decision,” Dumbledore announces. “In a minute, the champions will be chosen. If your name is called, I would like you to please come up and make your way into the next chamber.” He waves dramatically to indicate the door behind the head table. “There, you will receive your instructions. But for now…” 

With a sweep of his arm, every light is extinguished except the candles in the mouths of the carved pumpkins. Atmospheric darkness descends upon the hall, all for the betterment of the Goblet’s drama. Huge blue flames dance and spit at the ends of the four rows of tables, throwing eerie shadows over the staff and students. Dumbledore steps down from the dais to stand beneath the lip of the Goblet.

“Any moment,” whispers Lee. 

Half a second later, the flames leap and turn a vibrant, strontium red. They hiss and spark, spitting little cinders reminiscent of Fred and George’s creations. One tongue of fire snaps upwards and flings out a charred piece of parchment.

The flames settle back to blue, and the entire student body holds its breath as Dumbledore reaches out to catch it.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he reads loudly. “Viktor Krum!”

A storm of applause thunders through the hall.

“No surprises there!” Ron shouts.

Krum rises smoothly from the other end of the Gryffindor table and stalks up to the front and beyond, through the small door. His schoolmates make so much noise that most of them can be heard above the hubbub. 

“Bravo, Viktor!” booms Karkaroff.

Slowly, the clapping dies back down to crackling silence. All gazes refocus on the Goblet. One minute passes, and then the next. At about two minutes and twenty-three seconds, the flames rush upwards again. A second parchment flutters out of it, drifting down into Dumbledore’s open hand.

“For Beauxbatons… Fleur Delacour!”

“Go Fleur!” Hermione yells into the cacophony. 

“Oh my god!” Harry says. “That’s brilliant!”

At the Slytherin table, Fleur extracts herself from Sara’s congratulatory affections and follows gracefully after Viktor. She smiles at people and shakes their hands as she goes, leaving a trail of star-struck fans in her wake.

Two down, leaving the Hogwarts champion for last. The excitement has run Harry’s over-full stomach into nausea.

The flames in the Goblet dance tauntingly. It could be any one of them, and it feels in that heavy moment as if even those who haven’t entered are under scrutiny.

Suddenly the walls are awash with red, red from the tall, arcing fire, and the third scrap of parchment comes sailing down, tantalisingly slow.

“And the Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore calls, “is Cedric Diggory!”

The Hufflepuff table veritably  _ explodes.  _

“No!” Ron and Hermione cry, though barely anyone can hear them. They clap anyway, smiling at Diggory as he makes his way past. The poor bloke smiles back, even though he’s being thumped on the back by every one of his housemates who can reach.

He disappears through the door, and attention returns, reluctantly, to Dumbledore.

“Excellent!” he begins. “We now have our three brave champions! I am sure I can count upon each and every one of you to give your champions every measure of support you can muster. By doing so, you will all contribute greatly to—”

Unexpectedly, the Goblet roars to life again. Dumbledore whips around to stare at it. A fourth, blackened, feeble slip of parchment is spat out, and the entire hall watches in anticipation. Dumbledore snatches it from the air before it hits the ground, and stands with his back to them for an agonisingly long time.

“Harry Potter,” he says, however quietly. Through the dead silence, it reaches even those furthest away. “Harry Potter!” he says, more loudly.

“What?” Harry replies before he can even think. He doesn’t think he _can_ think.

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore insists, sounding now like a petulant parrot. 

Harry’s legs are numb, and the nausea has turned into a very real threat of being sick.

“What on  _ Earth _ do you mean?” Hermione demands, standing and slamming her hands on the table. Whispers break out across the tables. Harry hears accusatory drifts of “How did he do it?!” and “He’s not of age!”, but he still can’t process a single one. 

Professor McGonagall comes swishing down from where she had been whispering to Dumbledore and sets her hands firmly, reassuringly _ ,  _ on his shoulders. 

“Come with me, Mr Potter,” she urges quietly but not unkindly. Harry stands on terribly unsteady feet and stumbles after her, grateful for the grounding arm around his back.

A snide laugh slices loudly through the discontent from the other side of the hall. “Well I wonder who put his name in, then!” comes Malfoy’s voice. “Of course it wasn’t  _ him _ . If anyone believes that Potter is smart—or  _ stupid _ enough to put his name in, then I truly fear for their future!”

Harry doesn’t look at anyone as he walks, not even Dumbledore. Stunned and horrified, he stares unseeingly at the floor a few feet ahead of him, hoping he doesn’t trip. 

Yes, he’d briefly thought of how wonderful it might be to manage to sneak his way in. But that had been a daydream, a one-off, not even serious, and now that he’s here… 

Harry feels sick to his skin.

In the next chamber, he finds himself surrounded by a host of sparkling trinkets and gadgets. They decorate the shelves and sit atop tables, clinking and chiming. The walls are lined with portraits, and at the back is a proud and roaring fireplace, around which are gathered Fleur, Krum and Cedric Diggory.

Fleur turns to them. “Harry?” she asks. “What is it? He can’t make his mouth work, so he shakes his head. He steps back, fully intending to hide behind his head of house. “Harry?” Fleur asks more insistently, before turning to McGonagall. “What ’as ’appened? Why is ’e in here?” she demands.

Professor McGonagall’s hand tightens on Harry’s shoulder. “I am asking myself the same questions, Miss Delacour,” she says quietly.

“Professor—” Cedric starts, but is interrupted by the skittering of feet in the antechamber. Ludo Bagman enters the room with a bright grin that Harry really does not want to meet.

“Extraordinary!” he exclaims, reaching for Harry. He glances up to McGonagall at the last second and abruptly changes his mind, settling for staring from afar. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen, lady, I introduce to you an  _ unheard of _ fourth champion!”

Fleur’s eyes go wide with shock, and Cedric’s mouth drops open. Krum straightens from his slouch against the mantlepiece.

“How!?” Fleur shrieks. “Look at ’im! He is far too young! This is nonsense!  _ Illegal! _ The Tournament is  _ much  _ too dangerous! He could  _ die!” _

“I agree,” says Professor McGonagall. “The rules were clear—”

A crash echoes towards them, and they are joined by the rest of the staff.

“What is the meaning of this, Dumblédorr?” asks Madame Maxime, standing imposingly at her full height.

“I’d rather like to know myself,” Karkaroff sneers. “Two champions for Hogwarts? I was not aware the host could have  _ two _ champions!” 

“It is impossible!” says Madame Maxime, resting her hand on Fleur’s shoulder. “It is most injust.”

“It is not so much unjust as cruel!” Fleur steps in. “Poor Harry is at too great a risk!”

“We were under the impression that your age line would keep out the younger students—” Karkaroff begins as if she had not spoken, but Snape interrupts.

“It is not Dumbledore who is at fault, whether or not Potter is indeed the one who engineered his way into this.” Harry can see the fire glinting in Snape’s dark eyes, currently narrowed at Karkaroff. “He has been crossing lines since he joined us, but he—”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore says. Harry would have liked to have heard what he’d had to say next, actually, but instead he tries to hide behind Professor McGonagall without looking like he actually is.

Dumbledore turns to him. “Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” he asks calmly.

Harry stops trying to hide and clears his throat. “No sir.”

“Did you persuade an older student to do it for you?”

“What? No!” he cries, aghast.

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” Madame Maxime accuses. Harry can feel Professor McGonagall trembling with how tightly she is wound.

“He could not have crossed the age line!” she says loudly. “We all agreed—”

“Dumblédorr must ’ave made a mistake,” shrugs Madame Maxime. Harry finds it interesting that every eye (except Dumbledore’s and Karkaroff’s) turns to her with a mix of distaste and disbelief. Even Fleur.

“It is possible,” Dumbledore says.

“You know perfectly well that you did not make a mistake!” Professor McGonagall refutes. She is very close to shouting, Harry can tell. He sort of wishes she would; it’s almost a guarantee that anyone opposing her will back down. “Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed that line himself, and he did  _ not _ ask another student to do so for him! I am sure this is easy enough for everyone to believe!”

There is silence, for a beat, and Fleur speaks again. “From what I ’ave seen, Harry ’as shown no interest in competing. He ’as been vocal about supporting his friend Angelina, and is as interested in the tasks as his friends, but that is all.”

“And how do you know?” Karkaroff demands, turning on her.

Fleur raises a sharp brow and looks down her nose at him. “I am allowed to ’ave and make friends, am I not?” He growls and turns away, once again ignoring her.

“Mr Crouch, Mr Bagman…” he says. “You are here to be our,  _ er, _ more objective judges. You must agree that this is most irregular?”

“Erm,” says Ludo Bagman. Harry feels like he knows what the verdict is anyway.

“We must follow the rules,” Barty Crouch tells them. “The Goblet has chosen him, and you all know as well as I the consequences of forfeit.”

Bagman turns back to Madame Maxime and Karkaroff. “Well, Barty knows the rule book inside out.” He smiles as if all is settled.

“I insist on resubmitting the names of my students!” Karkaroff says. His icily polite demeanour from earlier is now gone, and his expression is turning ugly. “Set up the Goblet again, Dumbledore, so we can all have two champions. It is only fair.”

Harry, thoroughly fed up with being talked about, speaks up. 

“I don’t want to compete,” he says. All heads swivel to him. “Cedric Diggory is our champion, and he is our  _ only _ champion.”

“Harry!” chirps Bagman, horrified. “You can’t mean that!”

“I do!” he insists. “I don’t want this! I didn’t put my name in!”

“Of course he didn’t,” interrupts a gruff new voice. Professor Moody clunks his way into the room, glaring at Karkaroff with vehement disdain. “It’s clear to me that somebody entered Potter in the Tournament. Possibly just to kick up a fuss.”

Much to Harry’s horror, everyone begins to talk over each other. 

“Listen to him!” Karkaroff scoffs. 

“Yes!” Cedric says.  _ “Listen _ to him. Potter didn’t choose this!” 

“He’s too young!” Professor McGonagall repeats desperately.

“He cannot back out without severe consequences, Dumbledore—”

“Someone must have tampered with the Goblet—”

“—We can’t have a fair competition if—”

“—No! Absolutely not—!”

Folded back into Professor McGonagall’s side, Harry is startled by the new and deep voice of Viktor Krum.

“You are getting nowhere with these arguments,” he says sharply. Everyone stops, eyeing him uncertainly.

“Viktor—!” Karkaroff begins, but Krum holds out a hand.

“Excuse me, Professor.” He steps up to Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch. “Are you certain there is no way to free Harry Potter from the Tournament?”

While Bagman grins and looks like he’d rather shake his hand and buy him a drink than answer his questions, Mr Crouch clears his throat and repeats himself for maybe the fifth time.

“Absolutely, Mr Krum. Entering one’s name in the Goblet is entering a magically binding contract—of which the consequences of breaking are fatal.”

“Then I only join to stay alive,” Harry says. Fleur makes a noise, but he ploughs on, thinking as quickly as he can. “Enter me under another category, something like, I don’t know… Team Harry-has-Terrible-Luck, or something—whatever you want—but  _ anyway, _ I think your champions should be having the final say in this, don’t you, Professors?”

Madame Maxime frowns at him dangerously, and Karkaroff huffs a laugh. 

“Listen to him!” he says. “What rubbish!”

“’Ow cruel!” Fleur snipes. “I do not want him to compete because I  _ care, _ but your priorities seem to be stuck only on your reputations!”

Karkaroff’s mouth closes with a click. Madame Maxime gazes down at her champion, looking at least a little chastised. The only sounds that remain in the room for some moments are the crackling of the fire and the ticking and whirring of bizarre instruments. Even the portraits have shut up.

“If none of  _ you _ are going to argue for Mr Potter’s safety,” says Professor McGonagall, “then  _ we _ will have to.”

Harry realises that she, Fleur, Krum and Diggory are stood loosely flanking him. He also notices that never in his life has he felt so safe outside of Ron and Hermione’s presence, despite the circumstances.

“Yes, yes, this is all very heartwarming,” Professor Moody grouches. “Can we please settle on a solution?”

Dumbledore bows his head. “How this situation arose, we cannot know,” he says. “As both Cedric and Harry have been chosen by the Goblet, they shall be competing as discussed.”

“Ah, but Dumblédorr—!”

“If you have an alternative, my dear Madame Maxime, we are all ears.”

Everyone looks to her, but she does not speak any further. 

“If Harry so wishes, we can omit his representing Hogwarts. We can merely have him compete under his own steam.”

Around the room are a lot of angry faces. Snape, for whatever reason, is furious, and Karkaroff looks ready to spit steam from his ears. Madame Maxime, Fleur and Professor McGonagall are all glaring at Dumbledore for different reasons. The other professors hovering around the back of the room are fidgety and worried. Harry doesn’t blame them. He’d quite like to be back there himself, not having to deal with any of this. Ludo Bagman, however, looks rather excited.

“Right!” he announces, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we crack on? We need to give the instructions for the first task! Barty, would you like to do the honours for us?”

Mr Crouch rouses himself from deep thought, or maybe just a stray daydream. “Yes… The tasks.”

He steps into the light of the fire, and Harry thinks, in this light, that he looks quite ill. Paler and frailer than he was at the Quidditch World Cup, his face has deep shadows and his skin is papery.

“This first task is designed to test your daring,” he begins, addressing the four champions. “As such, we will not be telling you what you will face. Courage in the face of the unknown is a highly sought-after quality in the wizarding world… Very important…

“The task will take place on November twenty-fourth, with an audience of students and judges. Champions will face their challenge with only their wands. Champions may not ask for or accept help from any teachers, and owing to the demanding nature of participation, will be exempt from end of year examinations.”

Mr Crouch looks at Dumbledore. “I think that’s all, if I remember correctly.”

“I think so,” Dumbledore agrees, peering at him worriedly. “Are you sure you won’t stay here for tonight, Barty?” 

“No, no, I must get back to the Ministry. We’re very busy at the moment, yes… I’ve left Weatherby in charge. He’s very enthusiastic… A little too enthusiastic, truthfully, but he’s calming down…”

“You’ll come and have a drink before you leave, at least?” Dumbledore implores.

“Come on, Barty! I’m staying,” says Bagman. “It’s all happening here, much more interesting than at the office!”

Mr Crouch frowns with some of his old impatience. “I think not, Ludo.”

“Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime,” says Dumbledore, “a nightcap?”

Madame Maxime huffs dismissively, placing her hand on Fleur’s shoulder and beginning to lead her out of the room. By the door, Fleur says something Harry does not hear and escapes her hold, hanging back. Karkaroff beckons to Krum but walks out without checking to see if he follows. Harry is quite amused to see that he too stops at the door to wait with Fleur.

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed and celebrate with your housemates,” Dumbledore says with a smile, completely unaware of the huge swoop Harry’s stomach takes at the thought.

“The rest of them aren't going to be happy,” he says, even though Dumbledore has already left, Ludo Bagman and most other professors in tow.

“Maybe not,” Cedric agrees, looking worried. 

Professor McGonagall steps in front of Harry and moves her hands to hold both of his shoulders. 

“If you need anything, Potter,  _ anything, _ I am here to help you,” she tells him quietly. “You should not be doing this, and if I had my way you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not fair on Cedric,” Harry says.

“To hell with that,” Cedric scoffs. “You’re not even going to be in the competition, from the way you were talking. I’ll let them know, it’ll be okay.” Harry smiles weakly up at his reassuring grin.

“Oh, Harry,” Fleur fusses, hurrying back now that everyone, except Professors Sprout and Snape, has left. “What is going on…”

“This is silly,” says Krum.

“Silly indeed,” Professor McGonagall agrees. “Miss Delacour, you are friends with Mr Malfoy, are you not?”

“I am.”

She hums. “He and Mr Potter do not have the best track record, but I think it is time for a change…” Harry frowns and opens his mouth to ask what on earth that means, but she turns to the other champions. “All of you, do not hesitate to ask me if you have any problems. I may not be allowed to help you with the Tournament, but you are welcome in my office any time.”

“Or mine!” Professor Sprout adds. “Oh, Diggory, I’m so very proud of you.”

“Thank you Professor,” Cedric grins, ducking his head.

“I wish our professors would talk like that,” mutters Krum. 

Fleur sighs. “At the moment, their reputations are the most important.”

Harry startles when Professor McGonagall pulls him into a proper hug. It is short but warm, and her robes smell like tea leaves and jasmine. Without his permission, misplaced nostalgia for his mother comes welling up where his lungs should be, clawing at his trachea.

“What is the world coming to,” she murmurs when she lets him go.

“We will help you too, Harry, if we can,” says Fleur.

“Thank you,” he stammers, hoarse. “You have enough to deal with by yourselves already, though.”

“Oh, it is no bother. We will be fighting the same fight, after all.”

“I think it is time you all got to bed now,” Professor McGonagall chides, ushering them out with her unmoving worried expression. The Great Hall is deserted by now, eerily quiet with the flickering shadows from the burnt-down candles. 

“Are you absolutely sure you have no idea what happened?” Cedric asks after they wave goodnight to the others. His hair glows golden in the flickering light. He must see something on Harry’s face, because he grimaces. “Don’t worry about having to tell me the truth, just that… If you really don’t know, there may be something bad going on in the school.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I really don’t.”

“Okay, yeah.” He nods. “Okay. Don’t worry. Anyway, g’night Potter. Good luck with everything.”

“Night,” Harry says feebly, feeling inadequate. He lifts a hand in an aborted wave as Cedric heads off towards the Hufflepuff common room.

It’s time to face the music.

Harry thinks over the odd circumstances as he traipses up to the Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady and a witch who had darted around the portraits in the side chamber gaze down at him. They whisper as he approaches.

“Gryffindor champion, eh?” says the Fat Lady.

Harry frowns. “Balderdash.”

“Excuse me!” cries the other witch.

“Oh, don’t worry Vi, it’s the password,” the Fat Lady soothes her, swinging the portrait open to let him through.

A huge wave of noise spills from the inside the instant he sees the red of the carpet. Several people reach through to haul him inside.

“You should’ve told us you entered!” Fred shouts, and Harry finds himself dragged into the middle of what is probably the entire house gathered in the common room.

“How did you do it without getting thrown out? No beard, either!” George adds.

“I didn’t!” Harry shouts back. “I don’t know what—”

Angelina descends upon him with a brilliant grin. “Oh, I’m so glad we have a Gryffindor champion! Even if it I didn’t get it, we can—”

“You can finally pay Diggory back for that match, Harry!” Katie Bell shrieks. It seems the Quidditch team have got to him first.

“We have food!” someone says, and he finds snacks being pushed into his hands at every turn.

“I’m not hungry,” he tries to say, over and over. “I didn’t put my name in,” he tells anyone who asks. 

None want to hear it; they want to hear the story of how he tricked the line, of what happened in the little chamber. For probably an hour, Harry repeatedly tries to extricate himself from the crowd, to slip upstairs to bed where he can wallow dramatically and overthink everything everyone said. At some point, Lee procures one of their Gryffindor banners and drapes it over him, tying it at his waist. It’s surprisingly easy to manoeuver in, like a kind of cloak, so he manages to ignore it fairly easily.

Eventually, he manages to duck down under a few arms and slink his way around the edge of the room. He trips over the Creevey brothers waiting to accost him on the stairs and apologises as he races up to safety.

He slams the heavy wood door to the dorm behind him and collapses against it. No sound can be heard from below, and he finally feels like he can breathe again. He puts his face in his hands and slides all the way down to the floor. He feels like he’s going to cry.

“Hello, then,” comes Ron’s voice. Startled, Harry looks up. Ron is sitting up against the headboard of his bed, fully dressed. Charlie the niffler seems to be conked out on the pillow.

“And where have  _ you _ been?” Harry mutters, struggling to undo Lee’s knot in the banner.

“What? Upset that I’m not congratulating you too?” He sounds petulant.

“No,” Harry says through a strangled throat. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, you gonna tell me how you did it then?”

“I didn’t put my name in.”

“I’d thought you’d tell me, you know,” he says a bit louder. “We’re supposed to be best mates and all that. Was it the invisibility cloak? I know we can both get under it, but you just didn’t bother, I suppose.”

“Ron, I didn’t put my name in.”

“It’s all right,” louder again. “That woman in the portrait, Violet, she’s already told us everything—”

“Ron,” Harry chokes, and Ron snorts. He finally looks up from the hangnail he’s tugging at. “Someone put my name in the Goblet.”

“And why would they do that?” 

“I don’t know, I really don’t. Moody thinks someone’s trying to kill me, but that’s Moody. But then Diggory said he thinks something bad might be happening and Fleur is beside herself and even Krum, and—” Harry’s throat constricts again around the sobs he’s trying to hold back. He buries his head in his knees and can’t care to spare a thought for sitting in the doorway. He thought—he thought Ron would be one of the only people to believe him. He really thought he would.

A pair of socked feet come to a stop in front of him. Harry stares at them for a moment.

“You’re being serious, aren’t you,” Ron murmurs.

Harry laughs a tiny, wet laugh. “Why would I lie to you, Ron? No one believes me.  _ I thought you would.” _

Unbidden, a tear drips down onto his nose. He swipes at it quickly, and sniffs. There’s a shuffle, and suddenly warmth presses against his left side.

“Sorry,” Ron says quietly. “I think I believe you.”

Utterly defeated, Harry lets his weight shift to lean entirely against Ron’s shoulder. He laughs again. 

“You think?”

“Well… I’m still a bit upset.”

“Yeah,” he sniffs. “Yeah. So am I.”

Ron lifts his arm, like McGonagall just an hour ago, and wraps it around Harry’s shoulder. He pulls him in, and they sit like that against the door, Harry crying gently into his best friend’s side. 


	4. Chapter 4

Everywhere he goes there will be whispers. He’s resigned to it, but it takes a few moments to remember why his chest feels so heavy when he wakes the next morning. It’ll be whispers or applause from his housemates. Both as bad as each other.

Ron is gone when Harry rips open his bed hangings. It was awkward the night before when they went to bed, and he’s under no illusion that it won’t be the same today. He does, however, meet him outside the common room with Hermione in the same moment Harry decides he’d rather be whispered about than trapped by the Creeveys.

“We brought you this,” Hermione says, holding out two chocolate croissants wrapped in a napkin. “Maybe we should eat somewhere else.”

“Good idea,” Harry agrees. 

They set off through the castle, out over the lawns and to the lake. The morning of November first is a cold one; mist is rolling down again from the mountains, curling in drifts around the forest, wrapping tree trunks with cotton. The air is frigid and a little on the icy side, but it’s refreshing and comforting and relieves Harry of his newfound claustrophobia.

Ron shuffles ahead of them, crunching into his stack of toast. He kicks absently at the grass and its crackling film of frost. Harry explains the previous night in detail—how only Dumbledore, Crouch and Ludo Bagman had wanted him to compete, how the contract will probably kill him if he doesn’t. How Moody had suggested that someone was out to kill him. 

He says it loudly enough for Ron to hear, but he doesn’t give much of an indication that he’s listening.

“What’s up with him?” Harry asks Hermione quietly as she fusses with the handle of the cat crate.

“Oh Harry, he’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Jealous of what!? That I get to make a prat of myself in front of the entire school?”

She sighs. “No, it’s because it’s always _you._ Ron has lots of siblings—he’s not the oldest, nor the youngest, nor the one with dragons, nor the Ministry employee, nor a troublemaker. To everyone other than us, he’s just Ron. He doesn’t get much attention at all, and you’re _Harry Potter._ You’re already famous enough as it is. He doesn’t mention it, but of course he’s going to be upset.”

Harry sighs too. “I didn’t think of that.”

“What are you two whispering about, then?” calls Ron, toast finished, hands shoved moodily into his robe pockets. 

“You,” Hermione says, and Harry elbows her. “Harry’s worried.”

“I think he has a bit more to worry about than me,” Ron huffs.

Harry gives him a look. “I think you’re more important to me than any of that.”

“I would be surprised.”

“Well, be surprised. It’s true.” Harry catches up to him and pokes his elbow placatingly. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t. You’re my best friend.”

Ron nods, however reluctantly.

“Come on,” Hermione says. “We need to get back for Charms. And after that you’re writing to Sirius, Harry. He’ll want to find out from you and not the paper, I’d think.”

Harry flusters. “But if I do that he might just come charging in himself! I can’t let him do that!”

“Would you prefer he find out from the Prophet or some magazine and come charging in anyway?”

Harry scowls at the ground. “Fine. Later. Let’s just get to class.”

“School seems a silly thing to be worried about, what with someone possibly out to get you killed,” Ron muses.

“Someone’s always out to get me killed. It’s nothing new.”

Harry hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome, exactly, but the cold shoulder the Hufflepuffs give the whole of Gryffindor house is a bit of a kick to the stomach. He’s very glad that he doesn’t have Herbology with them until Monday, but equally unsettled at the prospect of dealing with… Well, anyone who isn’t Ron or Hermione. Or Fleur, he supposes. Fleur is nice.

Cedric Diggory smiles at him in the halls, handsome and kind as ever, but his jeering friends make Harry want to move to Hermione’s other side. Harry’d heard Malfoy making noise about his incompetence mere moments after his name had been drawn from the Goblet, and in the back of his mind he’d been rather hoping that people would believe him. Just this once. Alas, like his housemates, everyone seems pretty convinced that he had entered the Tournament himself. 

He keeps his head down, ducking between Ron and Hermione to avoid extra attention. Buzzes of mutterings follow him everywhere like a swarm of unsettled wasps. 

He writes to Sirius n the common room that evening with Hermione hanging over his shoulder.

“Hermione, I’m fine,” he says for the third time.

“Harry…” She looks at him with a truly sorrowful expression. He knows she’s worried, but fussing isn’t going to help.

“So, what exactly have you got there, Granger?” Fred Weasley asks, sliding into the seat beside her. Harry sighs with relief—an angel disguised with forked red tail. “You’ve been carrying that crate around for two months, I’ve been dying to see inside.”

“It’s a litter of kneazle kittens!” she grins, holding the box up for him to see. “They’re our Creatures project from Hagrid. Would you like to say hello? My books say two months is the most important time for them to be socialised.”

George leans down to nosey inside, smiling at the little fluffy tumbleweeds of love. “Which ones are your favourites?”

Hermione frowns. “We don’t have _favourites,_ but I named these two,” she replies, hoisting them into her arms. “This is Wandle, and this is Marcassin.”

“Marcassin?” The twins repeat, brows furrowed. “Sounds French-like.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. Harry can see her resigning to inevitable mockery. “It means wild boar.”

“Oh?”

“Like the markings!”

Harry snorts. “Fred, I think you’re the only one other than Hagrid and Hermione herself to make that connection.”

Fred glances at him with a split-second startled expression before pulling out The Grin. “Well, my good looks can’t be the only thing going for me, can they? I have to be better than George somehow.”

“Oi!” 

“Oh stop it, you two,” Hermione tuts. “Anyway, I wanted to say thank you again for your help with the Society.”

“Going well?” George asks, finding himself with a lapful of kitten.

“Quite!”

“Is there anything more I can do?” Fred leans in, flicking through the notebook. He scratches Phobos behind the ears. “I have a few ideas, see…”

“Oh, that’s odd,” Hermione murmurs.

“What is?”

“I could have sworn I had two badges when we went to Hagrid’s… I gave him one, but the other has—oh!” She pulls her hand out of the plastic pocket, two shiny golden galleons in hand.

“Do you think someone took the badge and left those there instead?” Ron says.

Harry hums. “Are you sure you didn’t just forget?”

Hermione frowns for a moment, but stashes the galleons back where they were. “Never mind. What were you saying, Fred?”

“Oh, here…” 

Realising Hermione is now captured by the twins, Harry looks over to Ron and sighs. Ron shrugs and gives him a long suffering expression.

“You know, he asked about you two a few times when we went to Egypt, but I didn’t really think much of it,” he says conspiratorially. 

“Fred did?” Harry asks. Ron nods.

“And before the World Cup he kept badgering me for when you were both arriving.”

“The thing is,” George cuts in, eased expertly away from the other two, “he slipped up and forgot he was supposed to be asking about you too, Harry. He wasn’t very subtle before that, but now it’s just a bit pathetic.”

Harry glances over to the pair, but they’re thoroughly engrossed in their work.

“So I wasn’t just imagining things?”

Ron laughs. “Absolutely not. But it’s not like George is any better.”

“Excuse me, I am nothing like our a lovesick fool of a brother. I, for one, have some pride and decorum.”

Ron raises his eyebrow scathingly. “Uh huh, sure. Anyway Harry, are you going to send that letter? We can go now before dinner. I’ll lend you Pig.”

“Ah, thanks,” Harry says, folding the parchment into an envelope. They make it to the owlery and back before Hermione and Fred have even noticed them gone.

Thus begin the next (horrible) two weeks of Harry’s life. 

The last and only time Harry had felt this way at Hogwarts was in second year, when the school thought that he was the one attacking them. The Slytherins throw barbs at any opportunity, some enterprising third-year starting the increasingly common shouts of _“Potter stinks!”._ He doesn’t particularly care about them—expected it, really. No, it’s the Ravenclaws’ distaste that becomes so disheartening. He thought, as they had no particular allegiance other than to Hogwarts, they may want to support him too. Unfortunately, they don’t like the idea of such an important artifact being tricked, or the idea that Harry is trying to earn himself more fame. 

Well, he’s certainly managed that now, hasn’t he.

Sadly, because it has to at some point, the next Friday comes around. Since the introduction of Hagrid’s group project, most of the fourth year Slytherins and Gryffindors had been startlingly civil. In fact, the only nice interactions Harry have had with those outside of his house have been with Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson. Ish. Harry thinks he must be really desperate if he’s calling Malfoy and Parkinson nice (ish).

Regardless, Harry, Ron and Hermione are very much not looking forward to their next class. Wandering around trying to avoid as many of their year as possible, they make their way through the clocktower courtyard. It’s Malfoy’s day with the cats, and Harry’s wondering if they shouldn’t start taking a few each and sharing the load every day.

“Hey, Potter!” calls the devil himself, unmistakably smug. He’s lounging in the crook of the large tree in the corner with Parkinson, Goyle and Nott sitting in the grass nearby. Zabini, Millicent Bullstrode and Daphne Greengrass are perched on the rim of one of the walkway arches behind.

“What do you want?” Harry asks, trudging over. Closer, he notices the large badges they have pinned to their robes. For a wild moment he thinks they’re S.P.E.W badges, but then he sees the glowing golden words.

 _DIGGORY FOR VICTORY,_ it reads.

“Brilliant, aren’t they?” Malfoy says, slipping smoothly down from the tree and sauntering over. “But look!”

He presses the badge and the text morphs into an ugly red. _POTTER STINKS!_ it shouts. 

“Oh, very funny!” Hermione says scathingly. The other Slytherins snicker and press their badges. “Harry, come on,” she’s saying, but Harry’s too busy grinning to pay attention.

“Did you make these?” he asks, stepping closer to Malfoy to see.

“Um,” Malfoy says, thrown. “I suppose.”

“Brilliant,” Harry tells him, grinning even wider. “Do you have any spare?”

Malfoy tilts his very confused little head. His hair flutters in the breeze. 

“Yes?” He shoves a hand into a pocket and holds out another badge. Harry takes it and pins it to the front of his robes.

“I’m not the Hogwarts champion, Cedric is. Maybe now everyone will stop thinking I’m trying to steal his thunder.”

Malfoy stares at the badge. Someone clears their throat and he blinks, hurriedly reattaching his usual sneer. 

“Well, anyway. I’ve a bet with my father, you see. He thinks you won’t last ten minutes in the Tournament, but I disagree.” He leans into Harry’s space, flicking his eyes over his frame once, up and down. “I think you won’t last five.”

Ron snaps. 

“You’re an absolute _git,_ Malfoy!” he growls. ”You and your father both!”

Malfoy turns his frown on him, stepping forward and trying (but failing) to look down his nose at him. Ron is just too tall, and Harry catches himself trying not to laugh.

“Oi,” Zabini calls. All of Malfoy’s friends are on their feet. “Calm down.”

“You know what I think?” Ron barrels on. “I think your father is cruel and horrid, and that you’re a right spoiled arse. You’re lucky I don’t always want to murder you anymore.” He grabs Harry’s shoulder and tugs him away. “Come on, we’re going.”

Harry stumbles and adopts his most earnest innocent bystander expression. Behind him he can hear Malfoy muttering, but he’s more concerned about Ron’s death grip on his arm.

“Oh no you don’t, Laddie!” 

Professor Moody hobbles swiftly into the courtyard before them, wand out and levelled straight at Malfoy. Malfoy shrieks and Harry turns, just in time to see him shrink instantaneously into the body of a long white ferret. A few gasps and quiet laughs echo around them. Harry is too transfixed by the sight of ferret-Malfoy skittering around in the grass to notice. 

“A wizard never starts a fight when another’s back is turned!” Moody growls. He flicks his wand again and Malfoy goes shooting into the air, floundering wildly. Moody swings him around, forcing him to do somersaults and cartwheels and shoving him down the back of Goyle’s jumper. Goyle yelps and scrabbles at his back, writhing in the most amazing manner. Malfoy manages to free himself, only to be recaptured by Moody’s charm. He’s bounced into the air—up, down, up, down—thudding against the floor each time.

People behind Harry are laughing. He doesn’t quite see the joke.

“Stop,” he says, almost hoarse. Moody doesn’t take any notice. “Stop!” he repeats, louder, just as Professor McGonagall comes running into the courtyard. “Stop it, you’re hurting him!”

“Professor Moody!” she cries. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” he replies, eyeing Harry, but he sets Malfoy down nonetheless.

“Is that a student?”

Moody makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Technically, it’s a ferret.”

“Alastor! We never, _ever_ use transfiguration as a punishment! Surely Dumbledore explained this to you.” She swishes her wand and the Malfoy they all recognise tumbles back into existence. 

“He might’ve mentioned it,” Moody grumbles. 

Malfoy scrambles to his feet and hides behind the nearest person, who just so happens to still be Harry. Professor McGonagall gives them an odd look, but quickly returns her ire to Professor Moody.

“Are you all right, Malfoy?” she asks sharply.

“Yes Professor,” he says, though Harry can hear the quiver in his voice so close to his ear.

“Right. Come with me Professor Moody,” she commands, and heads back into the castle.

“Bloody hell,” Ron says under his breath.

“That wasn’t very nice of him,” Hermione agrees.

Harry isn’t really paying attention. He’s hyper aware of Malfoy’s hands on his shoulder and back, and his shaky breathing in his ear.

“Come on,” he murmurs, “we’re going to be late for Potions.”

Malfoy jerks abruptly away and tries to smooth his hair and robes. He takes his bag and the cat crate from Nott and stalks off without a word.

“Charming,” Hermione says. Zabini winks at them as he passes and Greengrass giggles.

“Come on,” Harry prods Ron in the arm. He’s gazing after the Slytherins with a bizarre expression.

“Huh?” he mumbles. “Oh, yeah. Potions.”

“You’re being weird.”

“What? No I’m not. _You’re_ being weird—you’re wearing the badge he made!”

“Yeah,” Harry grins, “but you didn’t see it, did you?”

“See what?” Hermione asks, leading the way towards the dungeons. 

“I think I’ve found out what happened to that Spew badge you lost, ’Mione.”

“It’s S.P.E.W., not Spew!” she insists. “And what do you mean?”

“He’s wearing it.”

 _“He’s what?!”_ the both of them chorus.

Harry laughs. “Just… Have a look.”

Sure enough, when they join the rest of the class lining up along the Potions corridor, Harry sees the little badge glinting in the low light. Malfoy, currently looking away from them, has pinned it to his other lapel in an attempt to draw attention away from it. The fact that it’s still there is incredible enough.

Beside Harry, Hermione gasps quietly. He grins and nudges her. She scowls up at him, caught somewhere between irritation and pride. 

“Enjoy life as a ferret, Malfoy?” Seamus asks loudly. Most of the Gryffindors laugh. “Can’t have been much of a change!”

Malfoy glares at him viciously but looks away without saying a word. He glances up at Harry, but his frown only deepens.

“You all right?” Harry asks under his breath.

“None of your business, Potter,” he hisses.

Harry leans in. “You aren’t too badly hurt are you?”

“I said, it’s none of your business!” Malfoy bristles. The hallway goes quiet.

Harry holds his hands up in surrender. “I was just going to offer to take you to Madam Pomfrey if you were.”

“Thank you for your _concern,_ but it really isn’t _necessary.”_ He brushes past Harry and strides through the classroom door Snape’s just opened for them.

“What is the commotion?” Snape asks softly.

“Nothing, Professor,” Pansy chirps. “Just that Draco didn’t really enjoy his little probation as a polecat.”

Snape frowns and turns his attention to Malfoy while the rest of the class files in. Malfoy stands at his desk and pretends steadfastly that none of them are watching him.

Harry realises that the other Slytherins are also wearing the badges and sneering at him. He grins and taps his own, thoroughly satisfied by the flashes of shock over their faces.

“Antidotes!” Snape announces. “You should all have found your recipes by now. You shall brew them in this lesson and then I shall be selecting someone on whom to test them.”

His eyes land on Harry. It’s a bit telling, honestly.

Before Harry can work up a proper irritation, the door swings open with a loud knock. Colin Creevey sidles in, grinning at him.

“Professor, I was asked to come and collect Harry,” he squeaks. 

Snape frowns. “Mr Potter has an hour and a half left of my lesson, he will be with you when—”

“Sorry sir,” Colin interrupts, “but Mr Bagman says he’s needed immediately.”

Harry cringes, feeling his chest go horribly tight. He doesn’t want to look at Ron. 

Or anyone else, for that matter.

“Very well,” Snape growls. “Leave your bag here, Potter, and be back promptly.”

“I—I’m afraid he’ll need his—”

“Very _well!_ Take your things and leave! Stop _interrupting_ my lesson!”

Snape is seething by now, and Harry is pleased as anything to go. He snatches his bag back off the floor and sends a grimace over his shoulder to Ron’s pitiful pleading expression.

“This is brilliant, isn’t it Harry!” Colin says as soon as the door closes behind them. “Just brilliant, you being champion!”

“Pretty. Anyway, what do they want me for?” 

“Photographs! For the Daily Prophet, I think!”

Harry’s heart drops. “Oh, great… More publicity. It’s not like they don’t run enough articles on me anyway.”

Colin takes him up through the castle to a nondescript room in the Charms corridor. 

“Good luck!” he chirps, and leaves him there.

Harry inhales deeply and presses his hand to the wood. Just before he pushes it open he has a thought, hurriedly unpinning his new badge and putting it in his pocket.

Behind the door is a small classroom with most of the desks and chairs pushed to the walls. Five have been lined up top-to-tail in front of the whiteboard and covered in red velvet, and the middle of the room is empty. Sitting at one of the desks is Ludo Bagman, who is chatting away to a witch in magenta robes. Fleur, Krum and Cedric are off to the side, talking and laughing pleasantly.

A man with a large, slightly-smoking camera is skulking off to the side, watching Fleur and trying to pretend he isn’t.

“Ah, the fourth champion!” Bagman cheers, rising and bounding over as soon as he sees Harry. “Come in, Harry, come in. It’s just the Wand Weighing ceremony, nothing to be worried about. The rest of the judges will be along soon.”

“Wand Weighing?” Harry asks.

“Oh yes, just making sure they’re all functional and won’t cause you any problems. They’re your most important tool, of course!”

Harry feels as if his wand is more of an extension of himself than a tool at this point, but he isn’t going to say anything.

“The expert is upstairs with Dumbledore, right now, but once that’s all done there’ll be a little photoshoot,” Bagman continues. “This here is Rita Skeeter, she’ll be doing a small piece for the Daily Prophet.” He turns around to introduce Harry to the witch in bright magenta robes.

“Maybe not _that_ small, Ludo,” she says in a high, honeyed voice. Her eyes haven’t left Harry since he’d entered, her gaze scrutinising and considering and leaving him feeling stripped bare.

Her hair bounces in a set of elaborate and impressively-tight curls, and she has jewelled spectacles perched on her nose. Fingers with long crimson nails grip a crocodile-skin clutch.

“I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start? The youngest champion, you know… Just to add a bit of colour.”

“Ah, of course!” Bagman says. “That’s if Harry doesn’t object.”

“Um,” Harry manages, but she takes hold of his forearm anyway.

“Lovely.”

She makes to steer Harry out of the room, but Cedric pokes his head in to intercept them.

“Excuse me, where are you taking Harry?” he asks with a polite smile.

“Harry and I are going to find somewhere quiet so I can ask him a little about how it feels to be in such a controversial position,” Skeeter tells him. Harry is surprised she doesn’t pet him on the head and call him a good boy, for all her voice drips with condescension.

“Oh, sorry, only I think we’ll be starting soon, and—”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry! I’ll get to all of you very soon. We can’t be leaving anyone out!” 

With that she tugs Harry unceremoniously through the door and out into the corridor.

“Harry!” he hears poor Cedric say before he’s shut out.

Rita Skeeter pulls open another door a few paces from where they are. “We don’t want to be in there with all that noise,” she says, opening the door. “Ah, this’ll do. Nice and cosy.”

It’s a broom cupboard. Harry stares at her.

“Come on in, then, there we go,” she says, ushering him inside and onto a cardboard box. She upturns a bucket to sit herself on before closing the door and plunging them into darkness.

Harry watches her unclip her bag and retrieve a handful of candles, lighting and floating them into the air with her wand.

“Now, you won’t mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, will you Harry? It allows me to talk to you normally.”

“What’s a Quick-Quotes Quill?”

Skeeter smiles and reaches back into her bag. She pulls out a long, acid green quill and a roll of parchment. She leaves the parchment hanging in the air between herself and Harry and brings the tip of the quill to her lips. She sucks it for a moment with discomforting and apparent relish before setting it against the parchment. It shivers and flicks its long tail.

“Testing,” she says, and the quill begins to move. “My name is Rita Skeeter, reporter for the Daily Prophet.”

_Gorgeously blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose quelling quill has punctured many an inflated reputation…_

“Lovely,” she says. She tears the top piece of parchment and stashes it away into her bag. “So, Harry, what made you decide on entering the Triwizard Tournament?”

“Er,” Harry manages. The quill skids across the parchment anyway.

 _An infamous scar, outstanding and harsh against sunwarmed skin, slices into the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, barely twelve years old_ —

“I’m fourteen,” Harry says, “and there hasn’t been any sun for over a month, I’m just not white.”

“Ignore the quill, Harry,” Skeeter tells him firmly. He snaps his gaze back to hers. “Now, tell me; why did you enter?” 

“I didn’t,” he says. “No one believes me, but I didn’t. Someone put my name in—”

“Come now, it’s all right. There’s no need to be afraid of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t have entered, but our readers do love a rebel.” She winks. Harry tries not to wince.

“I swear I didn’t do it.” 

Skeeter hums. “How do you feel about the tasks ahead? Excited? Nervous?”

“I haven’t really thought about it, honestly. Nervous. Yeah, nervous.” Not as nervous as _she’s_ making him.

“Champions have died in the past, haven’t they? Have you given that any thought?”

He wants to curl up and hide. “I knew… It isn’t something I want to think about. They said it’d be safer, this year. I’m just playing along to stay alive, really. Cedric’s the real Hogwarts champion—”

“Of course, you’ve stared death in the face before, haven’t you? Would you say that’s affected you?”

Harry stares at her. Has his _near-death_ (on multiple counts) affected him?

She seems to be expecting an answer. “I’d say yes? Quite?” 

“Do you think that the trauma of your past may have made you more keen to prove yourself? To enter the Triwizard Tournament—”

“I really didn’t enter, and I think the basilisk was bad enough—”

“Harry!” 

The door flies open, buffeting them with air. Cedric stands in a halo of light, bright white light, like Harry’s guardian angel sent from… Uh… Hufflepuff.

“Mr Diggory!” cries Rita Skeeter. “Whatever is the occasion?” 

“It’s almost time for the ceremony,” he says shortly. “I’m not sure this is quite an appropriate place for an _interview,”_ he adds, holding out a hand to Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles as he’s pulled to his feet and back out into fresh air.

“Harry, Cedric,” says another voice behind them.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Cedric greets.

“Dumbledore!” Skeeter cries again. The parchment and quill have vanished, and she is clipping shut her clutch bag. “I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?”

“Enchantingly nasty,” Dumbledore replies. “I especially enjoyed the description of my senile incompetence. Very succinct.”

Skeeter smiles sweetly. “I was merely suggesting the possibility that your views may be somewhat outdated.”

“I shall be delighted to hear the reason behind the rudeness, but another time. The Weighing of the Wands is about to begin, as Mr Diggory has said, and we must be along.”

Harry and Cedric dash back to the classroom, unwilling to be in Rita Skeeter’s presence much longer.

“Sorry about that,” Cedric murmurs. 

“No,” Harry says breathlessly, “thank you. You saved me. God knows what she’s going to write.”

Cedric flashes him a pained grimace. “Nothing good, I’m afraid.”

“I’d gathered as much.”

Fleur and Viktor Krum, looking collected but a little anxious, are perched on two of four chairs by the door when they return. Fleur smiles when she sees them. She pats the chair next to her and allows her shoulders to drop, fractionally.

Mr Crouch, Ludo Bagman, Professor Karkaroff and Madam Maxime are all newly sat at the table. Rita Skeeter settles herself in a corner and retrieves both quill and parchment.

Dumbledore walks over to his place at the judges’ table. 

“May I introduce to you Mr Ollivander,” he says, waving over a tall, frail, greying man. Harry has met Mr Ollivander only once before, but he is the unforgettable type. He’s surprised to see him, nonetheless.

“Mademoiselle Delacour, might you step forward first?” Mr Ollivander asks.

Fleur rises gracefully and meets him in the centre of the open room. She presents her wand and he takes it reverently.

He hums and twirls it around his fingers. It emits a number of beautiful pink and gold sparks that flicker and sparkle. Squinting, he stills the wand to examine it.

“Yes,” he says quietly, “most impressive. Nine and a half inches, inflexible… Rosewood… Containing… Oh my.”

“Yes,” Fleur says proudly. “One hair from the ’ead of a veela. It is my grandmother’s.”

Well, that solves one mystery.

“Most impressive,” Mr Ollivander repeats. “I’ve never used Veela hair myself; I find the wands they make are rather temperamental. However, if it is as fine as this… To each their own.”

He runs his fingers delicately down the length of the wand and mutters a quick “Orchideous!”. A neat, flourishing bunch of peonies, irises and camelia bloom from the wand tip. 

“All in working order,” he declares, holding it out for her to take. “Mr Diggory next, if you please.”

Cedric and Fleur share a smile as they pass each other.

“Ah, yes,” says Mr Ollivander excitedly. “I remember this one. Containing a single hair from a rather majestic unicorn—seventeen hands, abouts, and it nearly gored me with its horn after I plucked its tail. Twelve and a quarter inches, pleasantly springy. It’s in fine condition, do you treat it regularly?”

“I polished it just last night,” Cedric says with a grin, flashing a split-second look over his shoulder to wink at Harry. Harry chokes, and he and Fleur try not to giggle too loudly. Harry holds up his own wand, with all its many fingerprints, and shrugs dramatically to Fleur who snorts. Even Viktor looks amused.

Mr Ollivander sends a few smoke rings across the room and proclaims Cedric’s wand fit for use.

“Mr Krum, please.”

Krum stands and pats Cedric on the shoulder before he reclaims his seat. He hands his wand to Mr Ollivander and stands tall, hands braced at his back.

“Oh, a Gregorovitch creation. Outstanding craftmanship, I must agree. Hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” Viktor nods. “Rather larger in diameter than one usually sees… Ten and a quarter inches, quite rigid. Avis!”

There’s a bang, and several twittering little birds shoot out of the end of the wand and flutter outside through the open window.

“Good, all good,” says Mr Ollivander. He hands the wand back to Krum. “Last but not least, Mr Potter.”

Harry stands up and steps forward, smiling and nodding slightly to Viktor. Viktor gives him a tiny smile in return, and it’s more encouraging than any of Gryffindor’s cheering has been all week.

“Ah yes!” Mr Ollivander intones, eyes gleaming. “How well I remember, how very well. Such a curiosity…”

Harry remembers that day in Ollivander’s four years ago with incredible clarity, what with the way he had waved nigh-on every wand in the shop. That means he also remembers what had been so curious, and he rather hopes Mr Ollivander is not about to announce it to the whole room. Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement.

After a long moment, longer than the others, he conjures a fountain of wine and pronounces the wand fine.

Decidedly uncomfortable, Harry hastens back to his seat.

“Thank you all, it has been a pleasure,” Dumbledore says. “You are now free to go back to your lessons, or really straight down to common rooms or dinner, as they will be ending momentarily.”

Grateful for the first thing today that has gone right, Harry sighs with relief. Before anyone can really let their guard down, however, the man with the camera jumps out from the side of the room.

“Photos, Dumbledore! Photos!”

“Ah yes, my apologies.”

“Shall we do all the judges and the champions, first?” the man asks Rita Skeeter.

“Hmm, yes, and then the individual shots.” Her eyes are still glued, as ever, to Harry.

Annoyed and horribly self-conscious, Harry taps Cedric’s arm and murmurs lowly to him.

“Hey, uh.. Cedric? Could you do me a favour?”

Cedric smiles. “Of course, if I’m able. What is it?”

Harry pulls the badge out of his pocket to show him.

“What? Where did you get one of those?” he asks, aghast. “I told them—”

“They’re great,” Harry grins. “Malfoy gave me one, I asked him this afternoon. Anyway, you’re good at nonverbal magic, aren’t you? I heard some girls talking about it.” 

Cedric snorts a laugh when Harry explains the plan. “Sure, let’s do it. You’re great, you know that?”

It even makes being tugged around for the next half-hour worth it. 

(Mostly).

Harry gets down to dinner with plenty of time to tell Ron, Hermione, Neville and Gin all about the ceremony, but mostly what a cow Rita Skeeter is.

“How horrible!” Hermione says. “I’ve seen some of her articles, and they’re all a load of absolute rubbish! I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a genuine truth in one of them _ever!”_

“Mum reads her stuff sometimes,” Ron muses through a mouthful of chicken. He pokes a little bit towards Charlie in her new niffler-proof cage. “All sounds like nonsense to me.”

“That’s because it is!” Ginny says.

“Well anyway, she was a bit annoying about it, but no more than everyone else who refuses to believe me.”

He hums. Charlie rolls over for tummy pets. “Oh, by the way Harry, you have an owl.”

“Padfoot?” 

“Yep.”

“Brilliant.”

“Also, Malfoy’s watching you.”

“Doesn’t he always?” Ginny huffs.

“Oh, not always,” Hermione smiles. It makes Harry very wary. “Sometimes he glares.”

“What, why do you care? I thought you said we were being silly.”

“You are, but… I think this project has been a good thing.”

“Yeah, it’s like, we’re all civil now, and he’s sort of apologising in his own stuck-up-git way,” Ron reasons. “Well, maybe. And I hate to say it, but even Zabini’s all right.”

“Yeah, we know. You’ve been kind of, uh, staring.”

“Have not!”

“Have too.”

“Harry’s right, Ron. It’s a bit…”

“You’re bullying me again. This isn’t fair. It’s not like Harry’s any better. Hell, he’s worse! He’s wearing that stupid badge! And you—stop hanging out with my brother! He’s an idiot, and you’re way above him!” 

Harry joins Hermione’s laughter. The topic lies carefully unbroached between them.

As soon as they finish eating, they race up to the Gryffindor Tower. Pig has long since been released to the owlery, but Harry retrieves the letter from where Ron’s left it on his pillow and takes it down to the common room.

“He wants me to be free the night of the twenty-second, right here.”

“He wants to talk to you?” Hermione asks worriedly. “I hope he isn’t going to try to get in, that’s a terrible idea!”

Harry frowns. “I don’t know…”

“He can’t apparate in or out, because of the wards,” Ron says. Hermione smiles proudly at him. He smiles back. “I doubt he could use the floo, either.”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure everyone’s away.”

“Easier said than done…” Ron grumbles, and he’s right. 

They go to bed disgruntled and without a plan, suddenly highly conscious of the looming date of the first task.

Harry’s one consolation is that his and Cedric’s plan had executed perfectly: no one at the Prophet is dedicated enough to their job to scrutinise the photographs too closely. At least not those of Harry.

He walks down to breakfast with Ron on the Saturday morning to be greeted with more than the usual stares and whispers. Out of the throng of Hufflepuffs, Cedric stands up and waves the newspaper in his hand at them, grinning broadly.

“Oh!” Harry says when he jogs over. “Is it out? Did it work?”

“Like a charm,” Cedric grins. Harry snorts, leaning over his shoulder to see.

On the front page of his wholly-fabricated, worse-than-ever-anticipated sob story, a large solo shot of Harry is printed. Amazingly, Harry’s _DIGGORY FOR VICTORY_ badge is clearly visible.

“Brilliant!” Harry cheers. “You’re _brilliant,_ Diggory! Thank you!”

“It’s not a problem, Potter. It’s hardly like it isn’t for my own benefit, anyway.”

“You’re still brilliant—the Goblet says so, at least. I’ll see you later, enjoy your breakfast!” A few Hufflepuffs give him a considering look as he passes.

“What’s all this?” Dean asks on his return, paper in hand.

“I asked Cedric to help me charm the badge to stay hidden until the camera was about to go off. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

“That’s pretty out-there, Harry,” says Seamus. Harry feels very lucky that his dorm mates have finally come around to believing him. “Good job on gettin’ away with it, at least.”

“I really don’t know why I expected any less,” Ron laughs. “Well done mate.”

“Thanks,” Harry grins, “but it was mostly Cedric, I just had the idea.”

“Still, a pretty good idea,” says a quiet voice from behind them. “Any idea where Granger is? I’m here to deliver the kneazles.” 

“Cheers Malfoy, I’ll take them,” Harry says, still grinning. Malfoy rolls his eyes. He drops a cloth on Harry’s head. 

“Just in case, Potter,” he says, louder, for people to hear. “Wouldn’t want you seen crying those precious tears of yours.”

Harry pulls the cloth down and stares at it. All around him there are people snickering, but Harry can’t help the smile threatening to break through again in the wake of Malfoy’s retreat. In his hand is a very fine cotton handkerchief, embroidered heavily around the edge and emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest and a very looping _DLM._

“You’ve been handling him with a very good humour, recently,” Ron remarks. 

Harry shrugs. He runs the handkerchief between his fingers. “Maybe I subconsciously took what you said to heart. Maybe I’m only being civil for the project. _Maybe_ my life’s just gone over that tipping point of madness. I don’t even care anymore.” Ron nudges him with his elbow, brows rising. “I have you and Hermione, and at least three others who seem to want to help me in this shitshow. What can Malfoy do? He’s even been nice recently. Second chances, and all that.”

Ron lifts his goblet of orange juice. “Hear hear. Let’s take that as it is and pretend everything’s fine.”

“Hear hear.”

Harry, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and a confused Seamus and Dean clink goblets.

Still, other houses do not hesitate to make fun of him at any given opportunity. They’re on him when they’re out in Hogsmeade, when he’s walking through the castle, and even at meals. If it’s not for making an arse of himself as a champion, it’s now for making an arse of himself fictionally. Professor McGonagall has cuffed ten or so people around the head for their comments, which has been most satisfying, and the majority of his fellow fourth-years are kind enough not to jab and jeer at him every three seconds. Regardless, he’s still huffy and irritated enough that on Monday when he hears someone call his name he lashes out without hesitation.

“Yeah, whatever, I’ve been crying my eyes out _this year specifically_ over my dead mum, and I’m clearly off to do a bit more, so would you—oh. Cho.”

“Er,” she says awkwardly. “I was going to say you dropped your quill.”

“Sorry!” Harry splutters, feeling all of his blood rush to his face. “I’m sorry, thank you.”

“No, it’s okay,” she tells him. Her voice is as gentle as always and her hair is glossy and soft-looking. She smiles, and it kind of just makes him feel worse. “They’re all being mean, we don’t blame you.”

Harry retrieves his quill and gives her a shaky smile in return. “Thanks. It means a lot.”

“Good luck for Thursday!” she wishes before she leaves, and Harry’s mood lifts instantly.

It turns out that Ron is more than right—a full three days after the letter the best plans they have to clear the common room are to either announce dorm room parties, enlist the help of too-nosy-for-their-own-good Fred and George, or to drop a bag of stinkbombs. Harry hopes it won’t come to the stinkbombs. Filch would skin them.

Harry has spent every single one of those days running around the castle trying not to die of embarrassment or deck anyone who makes noises about Rita Skeeter’s comments on Hermione. He’s had to hold Ron back once, and Neville has had to tackle them both on multiple occasions.

“By the way,” Ron says as they sit down for dinner, “Hagrid asked me to tell you to meet him at his cabin at midnight. With your cloak.”

Harry blinks at him. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

“He asked me to be discreet.”

“Don’t tell me in the middle of the hall, then!”

“At least keep your voices down,” Ginny snorts.

“That sounds bad, in any case,” Hermione says warily.

“I want in,” Malfoy adds, appearing suddenly at their side.

“What?!” Hermione and Ron demand.

He shrugs. “If none of you are able to keep your voices down, please expect to be overheard.”

“Why are you even here?” Hermione asks nastily.

“Ah, ’ere you are!” Fleur says, hurrying up to them with two plates of food in hand. She hands one to Malfoy. _“Bonsoir!_ I wanted to sit over ’ere for once!”

“And Malfoy had to come?” Ron grimaces. 

Fleur winks to Harry, sliding onto the bench between him and Ron.

Malfoy sniffs, but settles himself on Harry’s other side. Hermione glares across the table at him.

“Anyway, if you three are plotting, I’m going to tell Snape.”

“And you won’t if I let you tag along?” Harry asks.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Fine.”

“Draco,” Fleur sighs. “Stop winding them up. We know you’re only curious.”

Ron snorts. Malfoy huffs, dislodging a strand of hair that’s fallen into his face. It resettles at the corner of his eye, and Harry really wishes he would just tuck it back.

“Well, you can come if you be quiet and don’t make a fuss,” Harry allows. He digs into his cottage pie and tries to ignore the buzzing in his stomach.

“When have _I_ ever made a fuss?” Malfoy says loudly, and half the table bursts out laughing. Harry tries not to choke, and Malfoy hides his small smile behind his goblet.

“Right then. Meet me in the Entrance Hall tonight,” Harry says, making sure he’s quiet this time. “Get Zabini to watch the cats or something.”

“Give them to me now and I’ll do it,” Hermione sighs.

Malfoy rolls his eyes but passes the crate over the table. Leonard the niffler uses the distraction to make a bid for Ron’s plate. Fleur catches him and smiles when he melts under her gently-stroking fingers.

“Ah, thanks,” Ron mutters. “I don’t like keeping them in the cage, but they’re a right troublesome pair you know?”

“Sounds like some people I know,” she says. “I can look after ’im for a few minutes, if you want.”

“Sure, please, go ahead.”

Neville’s baby tree-climbing moles chirrup noisily a few places away as Parvati feeds them bits of sausage.

“Did you see Draco panicking yesterday when Viktor sat with us?” Feur asks the table at large. “It was very amusing, I think you would ’ave enjoyed it a lot.”

“Oh?” Hermione says, her voice evilly normal.

“Malfoys do not panic,” Malfoy says uselessly.

“Yes, ’e squeaked when Viktor clinked glasses. ’E almost dropped it.”

Ron laughs. “Got a crush, ferret-face?”

“Says you,” Harry snorts.

“Got a crush then, _Weasel?_ ”

“You two make a right pair then,” Ginny giggles. 

“What is it Pansy says? Ah, polecats!”

“Aren’t you one too, Weaslette?”

“I’m not stupid enough to count.”

“Both absolutely in it over Krum! Priceless!”

“They even pretend they still ’ate each other.”

“I feel like we’re being ganged up on,” Malfoy says.

“Get used to it,” Ron grumbles. “They won’t get bored for a while.”

A shout echoes from a little ways up the table.

“Oi, what’s going on over there?” says Seamus, frowning and leaning forward to look.

“Fred and George are arguing again,” Ron sighs. Harry looks where Seamus is to see an intense debate going on across the table. Lee, Angelina, and several others seem to be throwing in their two pence periodically. Angelina looks more irritated than anything else.

“D’you know what it’s about?” Harry asks.

“No clue. My bet is, well, _you know,”_ Ron mutters. Harry doesn’t, actually, until Fred glances down towards them.

Ah.

“Right.”

“What?” Hermione asks.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ron says. Fleur giggles.

“Right, well, I’m going back to the dungeons,” Malfoy announces. Harry immediately leans over to pick the unfinished food from his plate. “There’s much too much red and gold and camaraderie over here.”

“See you, Malfoy,” says Ron.

“Don’t hurry back!” Ginny calls after him. 

“Ginny!” Neville laughs. Dean whistles loudly and passes her extra roast potatoes.

At the arranged time, Harry feigns tiredness and escapes to his room. Ron goes with him, waiting for him to put on the invisibility cloak before heading back down.

He opens the portrait for Harry and feigns surprise when he finds Hermione on the other side.

“I was just coming to look for you!” Harry hears him say. He laughs to himself, slipping through the silent, well-worn corridors of the castle.

The Entrance Hall glows with the low-burning sconces. In the shadows of a far corner he spots Malfoy, fiddling with his shirt cuffs and pratting about with a few strands of his hair. Gone is the uniform, just like Harry, and he wears a thick black cloak with a tall collar clasped at his throat. He looks a bit like a gentler, more regal Snape.

“Malfoy!” Harry hisses, dropping the cloak from his head. Malfoy jumps and looks up, frowning.

“Merlin,” he gasps, seeing Harry’s disembodied head. “What the hell is that?”

“My cloak,” Harry grins, feeling emboldened by adrenaline. “Do you have anything to disguise yourself with?”

Malfoy twists his mouth so he looks like he’s chewing on something sour. “My disillusionment charms are shaky at best.”

“Isn’t that a fifth year spell?” Harry asks. “Wait, nevermind. Get under here, it’ll be easier.”

“What?”

“Come on, we don’t want to be seen!”

Malfoy glares at him, and for a moment Harry thinks he’s going to refuse. He steps forward, though, and Harry realises that he may have made a mistake. 

“I knew you must have something like this. An _invisibility cloak,_ really!”

Sharing the cloak with Malfoy will mean close proximity. With Ron and Hermione it’s fine—he trusts them, they’re his friends, and he’s used to their contact. Malfoy… Not so much. Still, if they’re going to be stupid enough to do this, they both need to be under the cloak. He flicks out one side to throw around Malfoy’s shoulder and pulls the hood over both of their heads.

“Try to keep in step with me,” Harry whispers, wishing he wouldn’t notice the press of their shoulders.

“Don’t trip me,” Malfoy replies. Harry rolls his eyes but says nothing, leading them down the steps of the castle.

The grounds are cold, and Malfoy was right to wear his heavy cloak. Harry’s is usually up to the job, but he still shivers every time the wind picks at them with its daggers. The whispers and mutterings of the forest sprawl over the grounds. Something chirrups nearby, but it’s too dark to see what.

The two of them stumble down the rocky path, heading towards the glowing lights of Hagrid’s hut and the Beauxbatons carriage. Harry can hear Madame Maxime talking inside it. She must be near the door.

They pass by in favour of Hagrid’s, and Harry leans forward to knock on the door.

“Is tha’ you Harry?” Hagrid whispers when he opens it. The sound is loud, but not disturbingly so.

“Yeah,” Harry says, steering Malfoy inside with him. He steps out from under the cloak but keeps hold of it. “What did you want me for? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Hagrid beams. “I got summat to show yer.”

Harry knows Hermione had helped Hagrid with his hair again this morning, but he hadn’t known why. He’s managed to keep it neatly groomed all day, it seems, and has the restlessness of someone greatly excited. A large drying flower is tucked into his lapel.

“What are you showing me?” Harry asks, feeling guilty about hiding Malfoy under the cloak. He hopes it isn’t anything to do with those skrewts, or any cerberuses or dragons he’s bought off a stranger in the pub.

“Come with me!” Hagrid says, ushering him out of the cabin. “Oh, an’ put tha’ cloak on!”

Harry ducks back under the cloak, inhaling sharply when he comes face-to-face with Malfoy. Malfoy studies him silently.

“Well, are we going?” he whispers after a moment. 

“Shit,” Harry breathes, dragging Malfoy back out into the cold.

Hagrid is already approaching the door of the Beauxbatons carriage, and they have to jog to catch up.

“Hagrid, what—” 

“Shh!” he whispers, and knocks thrice below the gilded crest.

The door swings inwards and Madame Maxime steps out. She is wrapped in a thick fluffy shawl and is just as glittery as usual.

“’Agrid? It is time?”

“Bong-sewer,” Hagrid botches. “Would you accompany me, Madame?”

She closes the overlarge door behind her and takes his offered arm. Harry frowns, sharing a baffled glance with Malfoy, and they set off jogging after them. Hagrid can’t have wanted to show him Madame Maxime, that’s ridiculous, but their stroll doesn’t seem to be taking them much of anywhere and it is rather cold. He doesn’t particularly want to listen to their small talk, either.

Soon, once the castle is mostly out of sight, they turn into the forest. Harry sighs, knowing that they’ll have to hang back even farther with the brittle forest litter.

“What the hell do you think is so important?” Malfoy mutters.

“God knows. Could be anything.”

Just then, barely twenty feet behind the treeline, they hear shouts from people up ahead. A deafening roar follows, making them both wince and cringe away.

“Oh no…” Harry says, barely remembering to breathe. “Oh _no.”_

“Oh no indeed,” Malfoy agrees quietly. They come to a halt just inside a large clearing.

In front of them are four colossal, towering dragons. They roar and shoot spires of flame into the sky, and Harry is transfixed in terror.

The dragon farthest away is a silvery blue, tall and thin and elegant, and is growling and snapping at its handlers. The next is green and stumpy, no smaller than the others, stamping around as if throwing a tantrum. It seems to be causing an earthquake with each footfall. 

The third is dangerously red and spiny and trying very, very hard to spear the stars on each burst of fire. Its body roils and undulates, liquid, and its scales glint with magic. 

The fourth and closest dragon is a sleek, oil-slick purply-black, petrifyingly menacing and reptilian and making the most horrendous screeching noise. 

All four are hemmed in with laughably-short wooden fences, and seven or eight people run around each of them, heaving heavy chains attached to leather straps and collars.

“Stand back there, Hagrid!” yells a strained but familiar voice nearby. “They can spit fire twenty feet! I’ve seen this horntail do forty!”

The green dragon snaps its head around and roars. Harry is torn between covering his ears and taking hold of Malfoy’s shoulder to hold himself up. Malfoy himself is tense, poised on the edge as if ready to bolt. Harry takes hold of his upper arm anyway, both to prevent him running and to keep himself standing, and Malfoy takes a deep, shaky breath.

The air crackles with heat and smoke and ozone. Harry can feel it on his skin and in his lungs.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” he hears Hagrid say.

“It’s no good!” yells one of the handlers. “Stunning spells on three!”

Everyone pulls out their wand. _“Stupefy!”_ they yell, and send off synchronised stunners. The four giants hit the ground and the trees themselves groan. Each one is a small hill. Their handlers rush forward to secure the chains to the pegs they drive into the ground with their wands.

“Shall we get closer?” Hagrid asks Madame Maxime. Harry and Malfoy follow once they find their legs and Harry drops his hand.

“All right Hagrid?” pants Charlie Weasley, coming over to talk. “Should be all right; we gave them sleeping draughts before we left. We _thought_ it would be better to wake them up in the dark, but they aren’t happy… Not happy at all…” 

“What kinds do you ’ave ’ere, Charlie?” Hagrid asks. He’s gazing reverently at what Harry assumes is the horntail, one of the ones Charlie was talking about over summer. Its yellow eyes are still open a horrifying slit.

“This is a Hungarian horntail,” Charlie says, patting the fence. “Over there’s a common Welsh green, that red one’s a Chinese fireball, and that’s a Swedish short-snout.”

Madame Maxime is wandering between the enclosures. Charlie frowns.

“I didn’t know you were bringing her,” he says. “The champions aren’t supposed to know about this, and she’s bound to tell Delacour, isn’t she?”

“I thought she’d like to see,” Hagrid replies distractedly, still gazing around.

“How romantic,” Charlie mutters. He shakes his head.

“Ther’s one for each champion, isn’t there? What do they hafta do? Fight ’em?”

“Just get past them, I think. At least I hope so—they asked for nesting mothers, which is suicide in my opinion. But no one did ask our opinions.” He sighs. “I wish Harry hadn’t got caught up in all this. I pity the one who gets the horntail, and with his luck…”

“Blimey, look at those spines,” Hagrid says. Harry peers forward and does indeed see dozens of razor-like spines all along the dragon’s tail. Horntail indeed.

“How is he?” Charlie asks.

“He’s okay, I think,” Hagrid says, frowning.

“Hmm. I hope he’ll stay that way. I daren’t tell mum about the task, she’s already having kittens as it is… _How could they let him compete; I thought it’d be safe, I thought there’d be an age restriction…_ _He still cries about his parents, oh I never knew…!”_

As much as Harry loves Charlie, he’s had enough.

“Come on, let’s go. He’s not going to miss us,” he hisses..

“Dragons,” Malfoy breathes, “the first task is _dragons.”_

“Yes, now can we please get out of here before someone finds us!” Harry tries to lift his arm to pull Malfoy away, but Malfoy’s hand is already holding his wrist like a vice. “Come _on,_ Malfoy!”

Harry drags him away. They stumble over roots and stones, out of the forest and up to the castle. Malfoy is a half dead weight the entire way, hanging from Harry’s arm.

“Are you going to let me go?” Harry asks once inside. Malfoy’s eyes snap up to his. His expression is truly unreadable. 

“You’re going to have to fight a dragon, Potter, shouldn’t you be more concerned?”

“Are you going to be a git about this?” Harry hisses. “I’ll worry about that when I don’t have to worry about you getting us into trouble!”

He stalks off in the direction of the dungeons hauling Malfoy alongside him.

“Anyway, Charlie said we only have to get past them.”

“Ah, so that’s who he is. He’s fit.”

“Has to be, works with bloody _dragons_ . _”_

“Hmm, whatever. Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you back to your common room. Now, not a _word_ to anyone, you hear me?”

“I don’t think they’d believe me.”

Harry laughs derisively. The sound ricochets off the stone. “You’ll be surprised by what people believe.”

“Well, they believe Skeeter’s implications that you actually sleep when you’re at school,” Malfoy scoffs. “Anyone who knows you should know you spend your nights stalking me or getting into trouble.”

“Been talking to Hermione, have you?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow, finally falling into step and releasing Harry’s wrist as if his hand was never there. “Not so as you’d notice. And why would _Granger_ know what you do at night? Rendezvous frequently, do you?”

Harry feels himself flush. “No.”

“No? Oh, right, she fancies the Weasley, doesn’t she? Frederick.” 

“How do you know about that?” Harry frowns.

Malfoy shrugs. “Lucky guess. And Cassius won’t admit he—”

_“Miaow!”_

“Oh, shit,” Harry whispers. The corridor is narrow, and Filch is likely only seconds from meeting them in the middle. “Be quiet.”

“Shit, where’s Filch?”

 _“Mroww!”_ _  
_ _“Shush!”_

“What— _mph!_ ”

Harry steps slightly behind Malfoy and slips his hand over his mouth. Malfoy harrumphs but gets the message. They slip into a convenient alcove, heaven-sent. 

Mrs Norris strolls into view a few moments later, pausing in the middle of the corridor and sitting down. She stares right at them with unblinking red eyes. Her tail swishes and twitches.

_“Mrooww!”_

Harry can feel Malfoy’s breath tumbling over the backs of his fingers. Harry’s other hand has found itself holding his side to steady them both, just beneath the curve of his ribs. He feels a flicker of something warm as Malfoy—the absolute _child_ —licks his hand. Harry lets a shiver run through himself, pretending the chill from the wall has seeped through his cloak. He doesn’t let go.

“What is it, my lovely?” comes Filch’s mumbling. Harry pulls the cloak tighter around them. Filch shuffles and stomps the long walk down the corridor, swinging lantern making the walls swim and morph. Mrs Norris runs to circle his feet. He peers around suspiciously, standing outside the alcove for _minutes_. Harry gets jittery, tapping his fingers against Malfoy’s ribs and shifting from foot to foot. Malfoy turns his head ever so slightly to scowl, so he stops. The gaze pins him to the wall, uncomfortably hot, pressed into the shadows as they are.

“It’s an old castle, this,” Filch croons and finally, _finally,_ deigns to bugger off. They wait until his footsteps no longer echo.

Malfoy licks his hand again.

“What are you, a dog?!” Harry hisses. He grimaces and wipes his hand on his jeans.

Malfoy scoffs. “I’m surprised you haven’t been caught a million times over you _fidget!”_

 _“You_ weren’t any help, you bloody chatterbox!”

“I’ve never been caught before!”

Harry glares. “Let’s go.”

They make their way to the dungeons silently, ignoring the brushing of shoulders under the cloak. Harry stops in front of the bare stretch of wall hiding the Slytherin common room.

“Here. You’re welcome.”

“How do you know where Slytherin is?” Malfoy asks.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Good night, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Harry swishes the cloak over Malfoy’s head. He appears in the corridor, disgruntled and blinking and with flyaway hair. Harry turns and makes sure to scuff his feet as he walks away.

“Night, Potter,” he hears Malfoy reply quietly.

 _Dragons,_ Harry thinks. 

_Dragons._

Harry catches a glimpse of another figure stalking across the grounds as he passes a large window. He doesn’t know who, but he can take a pretty good guess. By Thursday the only champion who won’t know about the task will be Cedric, and hell if Harry’s going to let that happen.

“Dragons,” he says as loudly as he dare to the only two people left in the common room. Ron’s mouth drops open and Hermione leaps up from her armchair.

_“What?!”_

“They have one for each of us, we saw them,” Harry says. “And Malfoy said your brother was fit, by the way.”

“Of course he is,” snorts Ron, “he works with dragons!”

Hermione smacks his arm with her notebook. 

“Ron! For the love of god!”


	5. Chapter 5

“Have you told Diggory yet?” Malfoy mutters into his ear in Potions the next afternoon. 

The phial slips from Harry’s fingers and shatters on the floor.

“Clear up that mess, Potter!” Snape drawls. Harry half expects him to turn around and take points.

“Not yet,” he whispers back. Fleur had come running up to him in a tizzy at breakfast, but neither Krum nor Cedric were anywhere to be seen.

“You’d better do it soon, and then get Granger to help _you_ not die.”

“Are you offering to help?” Harry teases.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps.

“He’ll help,” Pansy whispers. “I don’t know what it is, but he’ll do it.”

“I really won’t,” Draco insists.

Pansy swoons. “Oh Draco, our saviour!”

Harry snorts. Beside him Ron makes a retching noise. Hermione steps over under the pretense of plonking Avennia onto Harry’s shoulder. 

“She’s crying for you,” she says, and then much quieter, “what’s going on?”

 _“Draco_ was offering to help me learn how not to die in the Tournament,” Harry whispers.

“He was?” 

“No,” Malfoy says at the same time Pansy says “Absolutely.” Malfoy scowls.

“Harry would really appreciate it, he needs all the help he can get,” Hermione says. Harry raises his eyebrows at her. She wrinkles her nose. “No offence.”

“Fine!” Malfoy sighs, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Meet me in the library after dinner and I’ll _think_ about it.”

Harry nods.

“Oi, ’Mione, why’d you suddenly go and ask _him_ for help?” Ron whispers.

“Because he’s one of the best in our year!” Hermione whispers back. “It’s for Harry’s sake!”

Not unexpectedly, Ron grumbles for the rest of the lesson.

Back at the tower, Harry meets Ginny as she’s climbing out of the portrait. She grins and waves him over, and he happily turns around to walk her to Charms, hoping that he’ll meet Cedric on the way. For all he likes Ron’s family, he realises he barely knows Ginny outside of their passing conversations at mealtimes, and he thinks he really ought to start being a better friend.

“I’m going to die, Gin, there’s nothing else I can do,” he moans. “The Tournament’s going to kill me.”

She laughs, letting shimmering hair slip over her shoulder. “You’re not going to _die,_ silly.” 

“Nope, this is it, this is the end for me.” He throws a dramatic hand to his forehead and pretends to faint.

“You’re too mental to die just because they’re throwing a load of nonsense at you,” she snorts.

He gapes, affronted. “What on Earth does that mean?”

“Your plans! It’s all madness! You fought a giant basilisk with just a sword, and you expect us to think that you’re _sane?”_

“Voldemort had my wand—what else was I supposed to do?”

“Oh yes yes, very convenient. Didn’t I have mine on me?”

Harry frowns. “I didn’t actually think to check… Well anyway, I was hardly going to molest an eleven-year-old by going through her pockets, was I?” A nearby second-year gives him a very alarmed look as they go by. He rolls his eyes. “I was already trying to haul you over to the door, and Riddle was prattling on about his greatness, and then you were too busy sobbing when you woke up to do much of anything!”

“I almost died!” she protests, swatting at his shoulder. “You’d’ve been crying too if you’d been me!”

“I probably would have,” he agrees.

“Wotcher, Harry,” says a voice from behind him. Harry yelps.

“Cedric!” he exhales. Cedric grins and a couple of his friends snicker. “Actually, I really need to talk to you. Go on without me, Gin.”

“See you, Harry!” she calls. “Good luck!” God knows what for.

“See you!” he calls back over his shoulder.

“You need to talk to me?” says Cedric.

“Yeah, um, it’s about the task. Have you seen Fleur today?”

Cedric’s mouth falls into an O, and he shakes his head. “You guys go first,” he says to his friends, “I won’t be a minute.”

He directs Harry over to a suit of armour they can hide behind.

“The first task is dragons,” Harry says in a rush. “I saw them last night, and Charlie said he thinks we only need to get past them, but—”

“Woah, woah,” Cedric says quietly. “What? _Dragons?_ Do they want us to croak it!?” 

Harry makes a face and hopes it conveys his distress. By Cedric’s furrowing brow, it possibly just makes him look like he’s having a stroke.

“I don’t know!” he says instead. “Charlie was there—Ron’s brother. He says he thinks they have a death wish for us because the dragons were mothers. There were eggs, too.”

Cedric glances up at the people passing them and leans in.

“Yeah, I know Charlie. Did he say what species they were?”

“Yes!” Harry breathes, wishing belatedly that he’d paid more attention. “There’s one for each of us. A Hungarian horntail, which has a horrible spikey tail, and the red one… A Chinese fireball. A um, common green Welsh dragon? And, um, it was silver and began with… Oh—Swedish snot-shout! No, wait, short-shout. _Short-snout!”_

Cedric is grinning, quite visibly trying not to laugh. Harry’s chest goes tight and suddenly his neck is too hot, almost sweating.

“A Hungarian horntail, Chinese fireball, common green Welsh, and a Swedish short-snout?”

“Common Welsh green, sorry,” Harry corrects himself. “I mean, if you don’t believe me, you can ask Malfoy—”

Cedric waves his hands in front of himself. “No no, I believe you… Why would I ask Malfoy?”

“He insisted on coming when he heard Ron saying that Hagrid wanted to see me.” Harry scowls.

“I didn’t think you two were friends?”

Harry’s scowl deepens. “We aren’t.”

“Okay, well, thank you very much for telling me,” Cedric says. “You know you didn’t have to, right?”

“Of course I did!” Harry protests. “Hagrid brought Madam Maxime, and Karkaroff is bound to have been sneaking around. You’re the only one who doesn’t know!”

“Still… Thank you.”

“You’d do the same,” Harry tells him sincerely. “Wait, don’t you have a lesson?”

“Ah shit, I’ve got to go. See you later, Harry!”

Cedric jogs away down the corridor. Harry goes to find something to do until dinner. Maybe he’ll go to the library and look up those dragons… 

“Well I’m glad you’ve actually done something yourself, Potter, but we’re hardly any closer to finding a strategy.” 

Malfoy sits in an armchair, nose in the book on European dragons Harry had found and bookmarked. Hermione has the one on East Asia.

“Any idea how they’re going to assign them to you?” she asks. Harry shrugs.

“Luck of the draw, probably,” Ron says, crunching into another biscuit swiped from the dessert selection. If Madam Pomfrey finds him, on his head be it.

Hermione sighs. “That’s what I’m worried about. You’re _sure_ you can only have your wand?” she asks for maybe the fifth time.

“Positive,” Harry says.

“Summoning spells,” Zabini announces. He’d only come along to be a nuisance— _a spectator, Weasley, really_ —but he says it with such certainty that Harry thinks he’s somehow missed a whole speech.

“What about them?” Hermione asks.

“Of course!” Malfoy mutters. “He can’t _bring_ anything but his wand, so he needs to use the wand to bring things to _him.”_

“Blimey, you could be onto something there.”

“Why didn’t _I_ think of that!?”

“What could he summon, do you think?”

“Well, what can _you_ think of that would be helpful against a dragon, Weasel?”

“Hmmm… Dragons can fly, can’t they? But I don’t think Dumbledore would let them loose around so many people, he’s not _totally_ lost the plot—”

Harry, hovering at the edge and leaning on the side of Hermione’s chair, picks up Asclepius to try to hide in his fur.

“Um, one problem, guys,” he says. All four heads turn to him, and he clears his throat with unease. “I’m not exactly, uh, very _good_ at summoning spells.”

“What?” Hermione says. “But we’ve been learning them for weeks!”

“I know, Potter, and that’s why we need to teach you,” Malfoy says. Hermione glances at him, then does a double take. “But first we figure out the rest of Weasley’s idea.”

“How did _you_ know he can’t do them?” Ron asks, spitting biscuit crumbs. “Wait, no I think I know. Carry on.”

Zabini snorts. “Where were you going with the dragons flying?”

“Oh! If the dragons aren’t going to be set free on the grounds, then wouldn’t it be best to take that advantage while we can?” Ron says. “These things are huge, if Harry, Malfoy and my brother are to be believed, so it probably wouldn’t be great to be stuck on the ground anyway. If we play to our strengths, then one of Harry’s most outstanding is his flying; it’s probably his best, actually, he’s incredible.

“So, we put Harry on a broom, the dragon’s stuck on the ground, Harry outmaneuvers it easily on his Firebolt, and job done. Full points.”

He’s met with four equally unreadable stares. “Okay, maybe it won’t be _easy_ per se…” he acquiesces, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That’s a brilliant idea, Ron,” Hermione says. A smile is creeping across her face.

“He is rather brilliant at flying,” Zabini agrees, “wouldn’t you say, Draco?”

“Quite,” Malfoy says. 

Harry fidgets. Asclepius takes a swipe at last year’s Weasley jumper and gets two of his claws stuck. Harry disentangles him and puts him back in the carrier before he can wriggle free.

“So,” says Ron. “Summoning spells.”

“Or you could always command an army of large snakes, Potter,” Malfoy snorts.

“And where would I find so many snakes?”

“You're a wizard, aren't you? Conjure some.”

Harry grimaces and looks away. Yeah, of course.

“Don't be ridiculous, that would be much too much strain for any one of us,” Hermione says. “If we could help, then maybe, but we can't.”

“Stop avoiding trying to help, Draco,” Zabini snickers with obvious relish.

“Hilariously, suggesting a huge conjuring load does not, actually, help the problem,” Harry agrees.

Malfoy scowls. “I _know._ I’m not thick. Not like some people…”

“Helping?” Hermione reminds, completely exasperated.

“Fine. Potter, try to summon that book.”

Harry slips his wand from his pocket and holds it aloft. “Accio!” 

Nothing. 

“Accio book!”

The book shuffles nearly a half an inch.

“Accio European dragon book!” he cries again, flicking his wand with more force. The book, stubbornly, does not move.

Malfoy sighs. “Let’s get the theory down first, shall we?”

“Sorry if it’s too much _trouble_ for your sensitive self,” Harry snaps. Malfoy ignores him all but for a quirk of a brow, pulling a tome from his satchel.

“Granger, where do you think he’s going wrong?”

Hermione chews her lip. “Right from the basics.”

“Yes, I agree.” He flips to a page Harry could probably visualise in his nightmares. “Potter, read this paragraph, and then read it aloud for us, will you? Don’t worry about the talking part, just make sure you think the words through.”

Harry frowns. He shoves his wand in his back pocket and takes the book.

“I’ve read this bit at least twelve times,” he mutters.

“So? Read it again, please.”

Harry reads. He gets to the bottom of the page and goes back, reading aloud to the others.

“Have you learnt anything from that?” 

Yes. “Not really.”

Hermione fidgets behind Malfoy’s shoulders. Harry is beginning to wish he could just sink into the floor. Or the shelves. He isn’t picky.

“Try casting.”

Harry sighs.

“Accio dragon book!”

Nothing moves. Even his friends are rigid with expectation.

Malfoy tilts his head. “Explain it to me then.”

“Look, Malfoy—”

He holds up a hand. “Nobody is expecting instant results. If you want my help, at least do as I ask you.”

Harry bites his lip. “To cast the spell I need to have a clear idea of what I’m looking for; I need to think of the appearance, purpose or sentimental value. The wand movement needs to be a sharp flick backwards, as if casting a fishing line…”

“What’s a fishing line?” he hears Zabini whisper to Ron. 

“...and I need to think about having the object in my hands when I cast it, or it will struggle to gauge the intent.”

“Are you doing all of these things?” Malfoy asks.

“Well, I thought so, but—” 

“Right. Put that book down, and then summon it.”

Harry eyes him, but places Malfoy’s textbook on the table.

“Accio book!”

Again, nothing.

 _“Accio book!”_ he says, and thinks pointedly of the weight of it in his hand a moment earlier. The book falls off the desk.

“Oh?” Zabini says.

“That’s a good start!” Hermione encourages.

Malfoy waits a beat. “Summon it again.”

 _“Accio book!”_ Harry flicks his wand sharply, actively focusing on the memory of holding and reading from it.

The book jumps and knocks him in the chest. Harry fumbles to catch it before it falls on the floor again.

“Brilliant! Well done!” Ron cheers. He’s lucky that both Malfoy and Hermione have been persistent in learning sound-cancelling charms. 

Harry beams. “Sorry about your book, Malfoy,” he says, handing it back.

Malfoy runs his wand over the slightly-bent edges and they smooth instantly. “It’s fine.”

Harry turns and summons the dragon book to himself. It, too, after a little encouragement, takes an unrefined leap towards him. He decides that as long as it gets to him, he doesn’t really care if it smacks him in the face.

He practices for another few minutes, picking up a shaky volley between himself and Ron with a spare quill.

“I think you should practise summoning your broom, next,” Hermione suggests.

“Not tonight,” Malfoy says quickly. “I don’t want to have to bear witness to that.”

Hermione turns her best sorrowful gaze on him. “You really have helped us this evening, Malfoy, are you sure you can’t come again tomorrow? We would all feel much better if you were there, after all.”

“No, thank you, Granger. I can only stand so much of you noise machines.”

“We’re _really_ worried about Harry, and you’ve been really good…”

Malfoy holds her gaze for a long moment. “Fine.”

She grins with sharp teeth.

Harry’s talk with Sirius in the common room is enlightening, to say the least. 

(No pun intended.)

Neville has been persuaded to go back to bed, confused and apologetic, but the damage is already done. Harry stares at the _Potter Stinks_ badges the Creeveys have left on the side. They now read _POTTER_ _REALLY_ _STINKS,_ so he nicks one to wear himself.

“Let’s go to bed,” Ron mumbles, nudging Harry with his elbow. “We have a plan now, anyway.”

“Yeah. That’s if I don’t cock up summoning the one thing it relies on. Sirius was going to tell us something useful…”

“C’mon, we’re gonna practise tomorrow. Even have Charms in the morning.”

And Charms they do indeed have. Flitwick squeaks and congratulates Harry for his first successful attempt in class. Harry isn’t so sure, seeing as he almost got a shower when the inkwell collided with his head. He grins and thanks him anyway.

“Harry,” Hermione hisses.

“Hm?”

She pokes him in the side. “Over there.”

He follows her gaze to Malfoy watching them with a tiny tilt to his mouth. Harry gives him a small, unsure wave. He turns around swiftly.

Hermione is looking at him as if she’s trying not to laugh.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says, completely unconvincingly. “But what was that about hating him?”

He frowns. “I thought we were supposed to be being nice now?”

“I never said anything of the sort.”

“You’re a right witch, you know that?”

She laughs and “That I am, Harry, that I am.”

She, Harry and Ron run out to the front of the castle just before dinner that evening, when fewest people are around.

“Finally shown up, have you?” Malfoy huffs. Zabini is picking at his nails and dangling a niffler cage from his wrist.

“Yeah, yeah. Tower’s this way.”

The five tromp around the castle walls to stand beneath the Gryffindor dormitories. Looking up, the tower is dizzyingly tall. He can barely make out his open window until Neville leans through and sticks his arm out to wave.

“Hey!” he shouts down. His voice echoes down the valley.

“Hey Neville!” Ron hollers. Harry grimaces, rubbing a finger into his aching ear. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Malfoy’s shoulders flinch upwards.

“Right, well, go on Harry,” Hermione says.

“Accio Firebolt!” Harry shouts, but nothing is forthcoming.

“You don’t have to shout,” Malfoy says. “And make sure you have your intent.”

Harry huffs, and tries again. And again, and again. 

They stand around for almost half an hour. Harry’s wand arm is aching, and he’s sure Neville is tired too, pulling the broom up and down between them. It works, mostly. About half the time.

“This is good,” Malfoy says. “You have a good chance of it working when you need it to, as long as you remember to focus on intent.”

Harry looks at him skeptically, and then winces at the crick in his neck.

Ron exhales loudly and stretches his arms, sprawled on the grass with Hermione and Zabini. “I dunno about you guys, but _I’m_ hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Hermione sniffs. She sends a red spark into the air, and very far away, Neville sticks his hand out of the window and probably gives them a thumbs-up.

Harry collects the kneazles from Hermione’s makeshift playpen and places them in their soft little beds.

“Mew!” says Rosanna, tumbling into Snuffs. Harry smiles.

“Oh, look,” Malfoy says. “Give them here. It’s my turn tomorrow anyway, and Merlin knows you need your wits about you. Can’t have you murdered by a dragon after I put all that effort into helping you—people will begin to doubt my abilities.”

Harry doesn’t bother to point out that no one else knows he’s been helping, and, actually, are highly unlikely to doubt anything after one look at his grades.

“Make sure you don’t stay up all night worrying about me,” he smirks, handing over the box. He leans in and taps the noses of all eight kittens. “You look after him, all right? Wouldn’t want to harm his delicate complexion.”

“Stuff it, Potter,” Malfoy sneers. “Try not to die.”

He stalks off, back to the castle entrance, though the drama is sort of diminished by the fact that they’re all going the same way.

Harry goes to bed shaky and clammy and wakes much the same. Ron throws his socks at his head (Harry realises he’s been trying to pull his hat onto his left foot) and pulls him into a tight hug. 

“You’re not allowed to die today,” he mutters with something that sounds like firm determination. Harry grips the back of Ron’s shirt even though his fingers feel icy and numb. Neville opens the window and props Harry’s Firebolt on the sill, ready to be summoned. A gust of air buffets them out of the door, so they head down to breakfast. It feels more like a funeral procession.

“Harry!” Hermione greets them, somewhat strangled, and throws her arms around his neck. Angelina ruffles his hair and Katie smacks his shoulder “For luck!”

Fred and George thump him on the back, grinning and clutching their bookies’ trays, but it doesn’t help. Not even when Ginny tells them off for jeering and hugs him too.

His throat is sticky and suffocated and his stomach refuses to stop churning. He can barely face more than one bite of breakfast, let alone the plate Hermione is gently encouraging him to finish.

“Don’t worry Potter, we have tissues!” someone shouts. He forces himself to swallow the last of his beans.

McGonagall appears beside him. “Mr Potter,” she says. “The Champions will be meeting in a tent on the other side of the stadium. I advise that you make your way there after your friends are done wishing you luck.” Her expression is pinched and her jaw is tenser than he’s ever seen it. He thinks he knows how she feels.

“You’re mean,” Ginny tells the twins a second time when they’re walking down to the stadium. The two of them pause in their calls of “Place your bets!” and, “Who do _you_ think is dying first?” to raise their eyebrows at her. Harry had become used to their cajoling in the common rooms and corridors, laughing it off with a wave of his hand, but today it’s a little on-the-nose.

“Oh yeah? Why is Goody-Two-Shoes-Granger having a giggle over there then?” George asks.

“It is a bit funny,” Harry agrees, and without noticing, the knots in his stomach subside just a little. Hermione sobers up instantly.

“I mean, it’s all a bit much isn’t it? This whole _deadly_ lark? They wouldn’t _really_ let him die?”

“It’s all right,” Fred says, “we all know you need a laugh, what with Ronnie acting like a git who’s crawled up his own arse and gotten stuck half the time.”

Ginny laughs, and Harry laughs with her.

"Hey!" Ron protests. "At least I'm not mooning over a _Slytherin!"_

"Yet," Harry whispers, but they all hear him anyway. Ron smacks his shoulder.

“Anyway, I thought it was Percy you said that about,” Hermione says.

“Yes, well, we have more than one moronic brother in our family,” Fred grins, leaning in.

“Oh?” She smiles. “Like who?”

“This one, for a start,” both he and George chime, pointing to each other.

Hermione drags Harry and Ginny away from their onslaught of raucous bickering, Ron in tow, the four of them sniggering and stumbling over the rocky lawns.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Ginny says. “Distracting them, I mean.” 

“I would never!” Hermione giggles. “They work hard to earn their keep, after all.” 

Harry would be hard pushed to miss the lingering glance she throws over her shoulder at them, kind but also sad—no, it’s _wistful_ in such a way he finds undefinable.

They can see the champions’ tent from the top of the hill. Harry swallows harshly and chokes.

“Bloody hell, are you all right?” Ron asks. He thumps his back for him. “You’re not even there yet, don’t hurt yourself already.”

“Sorry,” Harry wheezes. “I’m fine. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Make sure you do!” Ginny shouts, but he doesn’t reply. He forces a grin and a thumbs-up for some third-years who shout _“You stink, Potter!”_ and manages to make it to the tent in one piece. He clears his throat twice before pushing the flap aside and stepping in.

“Harry!”

Harry finds himself with his arms full of Fleur and a face full of her hair.

“Hey, Fleur. Are you all right?” She’s trembling, slightly.

“I am fine,” she whispers, head tucked over his shoulder. “’Ave you a plan?”

“Yeah, have you?”

“Somewhat.”

“You’ll be great.”

She pulls back and smiles. “As will you.”

“Harry,” says Cedric, as he wanders over. “You all right?”

“Great,” Harry says, feeling completely the opposite. “You?”

“About to collapse,” he answers with a shaky grin. Even Krum has joined them. 

“Harry Potter, good luck today.” 

“You too. You’ll all do brilliantly. I hope you won’t take it personally that I’m cheering for Cedric.”

A smile cracks across Viktor’s face and Fleur laughs.

“You have robes over here.” Cedric points to a set of Gryffindor red robes, suspiciously similar to his seeker’s ones. Harry hums.

“I really think they’d look better in black,” he says. “Is anyone any good at clothing charms?”

“I am,” Krum says, and flicks his wand. The robes ripple and an ink wash of black flows over them. He flicks his wand again and Cedric yelps, twisting around to see his back. A large black H has embroidered itself onto his Hufflepuff robes, satisfyingly eye-catching. 

Harry pulls on his new clothes, attaching his _POTTER_ _REALLY_ _STINKS_ badge to the shoulder. He hits it with an engorgement charm, just to be sure.

“Harry!” he hears someone hiss. “Harry!”

He glances around at the others, but they’re not paying him any attention. Cedric is pacing, and Fleur and Krum are back to looking mildly ill.

 _“Harry!”_ comes the voice again, slightly louder.

“Hermione?” he mumbles, stepping closer to the wall of the tent.

“Harry, I’m so scared,” she says.

He snorts, but his throat is closing up again. “Tell me about it.”

Abruptly the canvas flies inwards and he finds himself with another armful of distressed friend and another faceful of hair.

_Click. Flash._

“Oh, young love!” cries a sickly voice. Harry cringes, and Hermione jerks back.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she demands, and Rita Skeeter smirks. The photographer shuffles away.

“Leave,” says Krum. “This tent is for champions—and _friends.”_

“I’ll have you know that Granger is much too good for a scrawny git like him.” Harry looks to where Hermione came from and sees Fred leaning against a support pole, Ron at his elbow. Fred’s tone may light, but his glare is anything but. They both place a hand on one of Hermione’s shoulders, flanking her and menacing at Skeeter. “You’d better not be spreading more of your half-baked vitriol.”

“Nothing gets in the way of a good story,” Skeeter says lightly. Her bloody Quick-Quotes Quill is hovering around again. Harry would quite like to set it on fire.

“Fred saw Hermione sneaking away and thought we should follow,” Ron whispers. Harry almost laughs. Just like first year all over again.

“Oh good, you’re all here!” announces Ludo Bagman, entering the tent. He looks around and frowns, glancing between the extra, obviously unexpected visitors.

“That’s our cue to leave,” Ron mutters, nodding to Harry and hurrying his brother and Hermione out. 

Skeeter harrumphs and makes her flashy exit.

“Right,” says Bagman. He’s wearing his old Wasps robes again. “Well, time to fill you all in! I’ll offer each of you this bag—” he holds up a small purple pouch “—and you will pick a small model of the thing you are about to face! They have, err, different varieties, you see. It will also decide the order you go in.”

He opens the bag and turns to Fleur. “Ladies first!”

“I didn’t know you were competing, Mr Bagman,” she snipes, but slips her hand in anyway. She draws out a moving figurine about the size of Harry’s little finger: the Welsh green. Around its neck is tied a seared wooden tag with the number two. She inhales deeply and stares down at it with determination.

“You next, Mr Krum.”

Viktor catches his model and pulls it out by the tail. The Chinese fireball, number three.

Cedric chooses his, and Harry stops breathing. The Swedish short-snout, number one.

He meets each of their eyes, and they all wince in sympathy.

Bagman brings the bag to him, and he takes the only remaining model.

The Hungarian horntail, number four.

“Your task is to collect the _golden egg!”_ Bagman tells them. “You’ll know when you see it. On the canon then, Mr Diggory!” He turns to leave but stops short. “Harry, may I have a word?”

Harry frowns and follows him out.

“Harry, my boy,” Bagman says lowly, pulling him aside. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m _sorry?”_

“I can give you a few tips,” he insists. “I know a—”

Harry shakes his head strongly. “No, thank you. It wouldn’t be fair. I have an idea, anyway.”

Bagman looks unsure. “Nobody would know…” 

A loud bang goes off just above their heads. Harry ducks instinctively, but Bagman only curses.

“Drat, I need to go! Good luck!”

Harry returns to the tent to find Cedric gone. He sits next to Fleur on one of the ominous medical cots and waits.

The canon goes a second time, and all Harry has to listen to is Krum’s shuffling, air-shattering roars and the swelling noise of the crowd. He doesn’t think much of Ludo’s commentary, and especially not his remarks on exactly what he finds wrong with Fleur’s approach.

Cedric is hauled in by Madam Pomfrey, who closes the curtains around his gurney.

The canon goes a third time, and Harry is alone.

The audience goes even wilder for Krum. Harry wonders if Ron’s as excited as he suspects he is.

“He has it!” Bagman shouts after an age. “He has the egg!”

Harry rises to his feet only to find that they’ve tried to do a runner on him. He picks himself up off the ground, shaking horribly, and steps into the tunnel. The canon goes a fourth time, and he walks towards the pale, watery light.

The stadium is large, easily half a Quidditch pitch. The noise from the crowd surges again, and he neither knows nor cares what they’re saying. 

The horntail crouches in the centre of the pit. Her wings are half furled around her and her nest in which the golden egg gleams. Her eyes narrow at the sight of him, menacing.

Harry takes several huge breaths of air, letting the cold sting his lungs. He holds out his wand and yells into the din.

_“ACCIO FIREBOLT!”_

One moment passes. A second. A third. 

Harry scrambles down onto the first few rocks. The horntail snuffles.

A slight singing noise slants towards him and Harry looks up in glee. His broom swoops down, and he jumps from the plateau.

It catches him, just as he knew it would.

“Goodness, what courage! Did you _see_ that ladies and gentlemen?” Ludo Bagman exclaims. Harry makes a lap around the stadium on his Firebolt. The horntail follows his path, arcing her neck like a black, scaly version of Dudley’s old slinky before it tangled. The chains around her ankles have been set in concrete.

Finally she roars, leaping and clawing her way towards him. He grips his broom desperately, zig zagging away, and sprints towards the nest.

He hears her start to spit her fire before he feels it, which may be the only reason he doesn’t cook. The air burns, and Harry remains empty-handed and his heart racing.

With an odd, panic-compelled timing, Malfoy’s snide words from a measly two evenings ago rattle their way into his head. 

_You could always command an army of snakes._

The horntail flaps towards him and shrieks when he dodges. Malfoy’s stupid stab does sound like it might be useful right about now, but then again, anything would. 

Speaking of, do dragons speak Parseltongue? 

Judging by the unintelligible screeching, no.

 _Could_ he summon a few snakes to help?

There’s an outcropping on the other side of the stadium that Harry knows the dragon can’t reach. He dives for it and gets a claw-graze to the back. He thanks whatever the hell will listen that it isn’t worse and tumbles to the ground behind his cover, broom in hand.

“Shit,” he breathes. The horntail tries to toast his rocky cover to, crucially, no avail. Harry thinks desperately of the largest non-magical snake he can.

“Serpensortia!”

He feels a pull behind his navel and a very long Burmese python slithers forcefully into existence. He smiles, taken by surprise.

“Serpensortia!” Harry cries again, mentally flicking through any memory he can. A boa appears.

_“Serpensortia!”_

There’s a much more noticeable tug this time, and the widest anaconda Harry’s ever seen bursts through. It doesn’t quite have the length of the python, which truly is _considerable,_ but it more than makes up for it in girth.

 _What do you want?_ it hisses. It rises up as tall as Harry and almost as wide.

 _Can you please help me? There’s a dragon trying to get me,_ Harry replies. All three snakes perk up in interest, but look wary.

 _Thisss is not my businesss, speaker,_ says the boa.

 _Nor mine,_ say python and anaconda. 

_She is angry._

_I did not choose thisss!_ Harry protests, hysterical. _My masssters threw me into this contest, I did not volunteer!_

 _Humanssss,_ says the anaconda disparagingly. The horntail roars.

 _Please,_ Harry begs. _I can dissstract her, I need the golden egg. Can you help, please?_

_You will not sssend us back if we do not, will you?_

_I shall if you really refuse!_

_We shall do it,_ says the python.

 _We shall?_ says the boa.

_We shall._

_Many thanks!_ Harry shouts as they slither off. _Ssso many thanks!_

Harry swings himself back onto his broom and kicks off hard. 

“Over here!” he yells, as if the horntail was going to let him out of her sight. She tugs and strains against her chains.

Harry circles above, ducking her fire and rolling out of reach and trying his best to make a nuisance of himself.

There’s a groan, a snap, and he swears loudly.

The horntail is free.

The crowd screams.

Harry flies up, up, as fast as he can, away from the stadium. With every glance over his shoulder the horntail gets closer and closer still. His broom tail is smoking gently.

He swerves under the viaduct bridge and keeps low, forcing her to go over the top. The chasm offers him no protection so he heads towards the castle, flying from tower to tower. She lands on their rooves and sends tiles skittering to the rocky ground. She smashes windows with her claws and her tail leaves feet-long gouge marks in the stone. She bellows into the sky and holds onto the chase.

Can he risk going back to the stadium with her?

Something catches the tail of his broom and he goes spinning. He yells out, separated from his broom and falling, falling… _Crack!_

Harry groans, clinging to the tiles beneath his fingers.

The horntail roars and lands on the other side of the tower roof with a bone-aching shudder. Her claws screech and her tail whistles through the air.

 _Thwam!_ It crashes into the spot Harry was in just a moment ago, leaving behind a gaping maw of broken slate and splintered wood. He ducks and rolls again as _thwam—thwam!_

_Shick!_

The tile he’s holding onto slips and Harry goes with it, picking up speed even as he scrabbles to catch hold of something.

He gives up when he slices his finger open and reaches for his wand instead.

 _“Accio Firebolt!”_ he shouts. 

His feet hit the lip.

He leaps.

He’s falling. Freefalling so completely he can’t even draw breath, plummeting feet-first into the abyss that entrenches his home. There are rocks coming up to meet his flailing limbs. His robes are flapping and cracking in the wind. Above him the horntail bellows.

 _I’m going to die,_ Harry thinks, just as something smacks into his side and his fingers close around the heavensent handle of his broomstick.

Harry soars upwards, just inches from the chasm wall, fumbling his wand back into its leather strappings. A burst of fire tears the air several feet to his left.

He forces the horntail over and around narrow obstructions as many times as he can, speeding inelegantly over the grounds. The forest trees will provide no cover, and he decides that he’d rather not get them set on fire.

The stadium is eerily quiet on his approach, up until he ascends the lip of the stands.

“Hold!” someone hollers. In front of Harry are at least a dozen wizards on brooms, all pouring magic into a shimmering shield stretched over the stands. Another dozen hover overhead.

Harry leans as far forward on his broom as possible, heading for the rocks at a terrifying speed. “Molliare!” he yells, pointing his wand at the ground. He pulls up tight and slips off his broom, ducking into a roll on landing that almost turns his ankle. The horntail screams, and he’s on his feet before he catches his breath.

The snakes have curled behind the rock from earlier. They extend their necks at the sight of him and unfurl. Harry scrambles forward and picks up the gleaming egg, hoisting it into the air.

The crowd surges, and Ludo Bagman’s voice is drowned out.

“On my mark!” bellows one of the witches on brooms. “One, two, _three!_ ”

A volley of stunning spells soars over the stadium and sparks against the horntail’s scales. She wails and staggers over to her nest before collapsing, great wings shielding it from prying eyes.

Harry gasps great gulps of air and tries to stop the shaking.

 _Many thanksss!_ he tells the snakes. _Many thanksss! How mussst I reward you?_

_Sssend us back, and our deal is complete._

Harry opens his mouth. He closes it again.

_May you come with me? I require sssomeone’sss asssisstance._

Harry did not previously know that snakes could sigh.

“Potter!” Harry sees McGonagall and Hagrid running towards him. “Potter, that was incredible!”

“Thank you Professor!” Harry says, overwhelmed by such overt praise from her.

“Well done Harry, you did it! An’ Charlie said that horntail was the worst—”

“Thanks Hagrid!” he says before Hagrid gives himself away. He gets a hug from both of them.

“Go on, now, go see Madam Pomfrey before you get your scores,” says Professor McGonagall, shooing him away.

“Those are some very fine specimens you got there, an’ all.” Hagrid motions to the snakes.

 _Thanksss,_ says the boa, who looks very pleased.

“Uh, they say thanks,” Harry says. “Oh, and could you get Malfoy for me please? I need his help.”

Professor McGonagall looks quite surprised. “Of course, Potter. Now, off you go.”

Harry walks around the edge of the stadium and back through the tunnel. 

“Harry!” Cedric greets. He’s sitting on the same bed as before. Pomfrey is still applying something to his back, but the curtain is open. “Sounded like you made quite a fuss!”

Harry grins. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Oh,” Cedric frowns. “Those are new.”

Harry looks down. The python is disappearing off to investigate a chair. “Oh, yeah. I, um, need some help sending them back.”

“Oh, sit _down,_ Potter,” Madam Pomfrey insists. She bustles over and prods him onto a bed. “Now don’t move, I need to clean this.” 

She dabs the gashes with something purple that stings and even smokes, muttering all the while. _“Dragons… What else are they going to bring before they’re satisfied…”_

“What did you do, Cedric?” Harry asks, setting the egg and his broom aside.

Cedric grimaces. “I turned a rock into a dog as a distraction. Didn’t go very well.”

“It went very well, considering you’re still alive!” says Madam Pomfrey.

“Thank you,” he says, ducking his head. “What did you do, Harry? You have your broom.”

Harry watches the oversized snakes explore the tent. “I summoned it. She wouldn’t let me get close though, so I asked some friends to help while I ran distraction. She ended up chasing me around the castle.”

 _“Around the castle!?”_ cry both of them.

“The chains snapped,” Harry mutters, scrunching his nose and looking away. Pomfrey declares him fit with a scathing glare and instructions to stay put. She returns to Cedric’s back. 

“Harry!” The back of the tent bursts open again, and Hermione and Ron return. “That was so scary!”

“I’m sorry, ’Mione,” he says, hugging her, “I didn’t mean for it to get loose.”

“Nonsense!” Ron scoffs. “That was bloody mental! Whoever put your name in the Goblet is trying to do you in for sure!”

Behind them the canvas flap lifts again, and Draco Malfoy steps through.

“You wanted to see me, Potter?”

“Oh!” Harry says. “Yeah.”

He looks around at the tent, but Cedric and Madam Pomfrey are the only ones there.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“The snakes, I need your help sending them back. They’ve disappeared, though.”

“I can’t believe he actually got himself an army of snakes,” Ron whispers loudly.

“Can’t you just call them?” Malfoy asks. Harry rolls his eyes.

_Hello? New acquaintancesss? Are you there?_

_We are here._ The python slithers out of a corner, followed by the anaconda, hiding in a pot. The boa drops down from a roof support and Cedric shrieks.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, abashed.

Malfoy tuts. “Ask them if they’re ready to go back.”

 _We are,_ hisses the anaconda impatiently.

 _I am having fun here,_ says the boa. _Call me whenever you want._

 _I too,_ says the python.

“They’re ready.” Harry says.

Shaking his head, Malfoy flicks his wand at each one. “Why on Earth you thought this was a good idea…”

“It was _your_ idea!” Harry refutes. 

“That doesn’t mean it would have worked, though I _am_ flattered.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, interrupting. “They want to give you your scores now. If you’d please re-enter the stadium.”

“That is my cue to leave,” Malfoy snorts. “Granger?”

“Coming,” Hermione says, still grinning at Harry.

Ron looks at Harry, and Harry looks at Ron.

“What the hell is going on with them?” Harry asks.

Ron grimaces. “Now you’ve said that, I really don’t want to know.”

Harry chokes. “Oh, fuck no.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Ron walks with Harry over to the tunnel. “Fleur’s was pretty impressive,” he says. “She shot this spell at it that made it wobble around a lot, vertigo, maybe, and then put on a light show to confuse it! All sorts of exploding sparks of light and fireworks—it was really cool. And then Krum came on and didn’t even think about flying! Imagine! He used a spell that did something to the dragons eyes and—oh, look!” 

“And now, Mr Potter if you please!” Bagman’s voice clamours into Harry’s awareness and he looks up and around. The stands, now shield-free, are so full they heave with life. Ludo Bagman is waving him over. They come to a stop near the middle of the stadium to look up. 

The judges’ table is draped imperiously with gold, and all three headmasters, Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman are seated there.

Madame Maxime holds up her wand and a silvery ribbon flies from the end. It curls and twists in the air, forming a shimmering seven. 

“Must’ve taken points for your shoulder and the dragon escaping,” Ron mutters, audibly annoyed.

Mr Crouch holds up his wand and gives Harry a nine. Dumbledore does the same.

“Brilliant!” Ron says.

Ludo Bagman, beaming, sends up a ten.

“What?!” Harry squeaks.

“Don’t question it! You deserve it!”

Karkaroff, sneer practically painted on, gives him a three.

 _“What?!”_ Ron bellows this time. “You biased _bastard!_ You gave Krum a ten!”

“Ron, it’s okay,” Harry grins. “I’m not here to win. He can be horrible all he wants.”

And really, Ron’s anger on his behalf is worth more than all the tens in the world. Harry pulls him back into the tent, smiling from ear to ear.

“Karkaroff gave me a three!” he tells Cedric happily.

“Did he? Gave me a five. Bastard, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely.”

“Still, looks like your badge survived.” Cedric nods to his shoulder and Harry looks down. Sure enough the badge remains, if a little discoloured, completely intact. The words aren’t even flickering.

Harry detaches it and pins it back onto his jumper when he shrugs out of the Tournament robes.

“You fixed?” Ron asks Cedric.

“Pretty much,” he says.

“Let’s go, shall we?” 

He, Harry and Cedric stroll out of the tent and are met by Fleur and Viktor.

“Ah, you are ’ere!” Fleur says, hugging all three of them. “We are free to go, so let’s celebrate!”

Students are piling out of the stadium entrance, all of them cheering and chattering excitedly. Harry can hear the Gryffindor chant in the distance.

“Cedric!” several people shout. Cedric turns around just in time to be piled upon by five of his friends shouting and congratulating him. 

Fleur and Viktor are quickly surrounded by their schools, and Harry and Ron watch on in glee.

“All right, Potter!” George Weasley shouts in his ear. Suddenly, he’s hoisted into the air and sitting on his shoulders.

The noise soars as all the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors descend.

“Dra-gon boy! Dra-gon boy!” chants Lee.

“More like snake man!” 

“Master of the Reptiles!”

“Snakemaster General!”

 _“What_ now?” Harry laughs.

“Oi! Leave us out of it!” shrieks Parkinson.

“A little hot under the collar, Potter?”

“Who says we party?”

Harry watches Fleur climb expertly onto the shoulders of a boy he recognises. He stands up, and she towers over the crowds.

“A celebration is in order!” she yells, and everyone cheers.


	6. Chapter 6

A scrap of parchment is making its way around the tables at lunch. In its wake follow gushes of whispering and giggling, and people with tiny coloured stars on their lapels. Some are on cuffs, jumper sleeves, even skin. Harry looks on in confusion until the paper lands in his hands.

 _To all whom this message concerns,_ it reads in beautiful cursive.

_A short committee meeting is to be held in the dungeons this eight p.m., casual attire. Please feel free to contribute to refreshments._

_Please pass along this reminder on receiving._

The parchment isn’t signed, but in the corner is a small pink star. Harry brushes his thumb over it and smiles when the words _tap me twice!_ ink themselves beneath it. He does as instructed and the star sticks to his finger. Beneath it is a green one of identical shape.

“Ron,” Harry says.

“Yeah?” Ron says.

“Here you go.” Harry reaches out and taps the star onto Ron’s cheek. It sticks there and smoothes itself onto his skin. Harry giggles.

Ron frowns, scrubbing at his face. “What was that?”

“One of these!” Harry says, showing him the parchment. He taps the green star and presses it to his own cheekbone before taking another. Ron takes the parchment, picking up a star and pressing it to Hermione’s nose.

“Ron!” she huffs. She reads over the parchment and smiles too, sticking a gold star on Neville’s collar before passing it on.

“Nice sticker, Harry,” says Collin.

“Yeah Harry, nice choice,” Ginny smirks. “It really brings out your eyes.”

Harry glances down at the star on his finger. It’s bronze and shimmery. He grins.

“Good thing I got one for you then, isn’t it?” He leans across the table and prods it onto the side of her nose. “There! Now we both have pretty eyes.”

“Oh, you do flatter me so!” she laughs, running her fingers over the spot.

Harry sits up suddenly, struck. “I have an idea!” he says.

“Oh yeah?” asks Ron. 

Harry grins. “Let’s go to Hogsmeade.”

 _“What?”_ Ginny scoffs. “How are you—actually, I don’t care. I want in.”

“No, no,” Harry says quietly. “We can’t send anyone that people will recognise easily. We could send Dean, I suppose. He’s quite tall, looks older than us.”

“Oi, Dean!” says Ron in a loud stage whisper. “Fancy sneaking to Hogsmeade?”

“If you can get me there in one piece!” Dean replies.

“Course we can,” Harry tells him. “Come on, let’s go right now!”

Harry sprints back up to the dorms to collect the map and some money. He leads Dean, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Seamus to the statue of the humpback witch. He checks the map for approaching witnesses and taps the statue with his wand.

“Dissendium,” he mutters, and the statue slides away.

The others make noises of appreciation. He pushes some money into the hands of Dean and Seamus. “We’ll open the statue when you get back, just make sure you don’t get caught!”

Ron and Hermione hand them some more money and send them off. It takes them just over a half-hour, in which time the remaining four hang around trying their damndest to look inconspicuous. Neville was quite smart to beg out, if being on the roped-in-friends end of breaking the rules is always this fraught.

Eventually the pair return grinning ear to ear, with shrunken crates of butterbeer (and one dubiously obtained crate of Ogden’s) from Rosmerta and pockets full of Honeydukes’ finest.

Harry throws the cloak over the crates and levitates them above their heads.

“Oi, why couldn’t we have had that?” Seamus asks. “Do you know how hard it is to sneak out of that basement?”

“If I’d given it to you, you’d’ve just stolen everything,” Harry says reasonably. Seamus pouts.

“It was fun,” Dean says. He winks at Ginny. “Seamus got chatted up by a drunk hag at the Broomsticks.”

“Did not!” Seamus says. “She jus’ wanted to know if I always have half an eyebrow on me left side.”

“Of course she did,” Ron snorts. “Who wouldn’t?”

“It’s all right, my darlingest dear,” Dean drawls, “I still love you, eyebrows or no.”

“Dean! Shut up!” Seamus swats at him, red in the face. Ginny cackles and threatens to test him on it. Seamus smacks her too.

They hide the goods in the boys’ dormitory, showing off the stock to a surprised and impressed Neville. It’s unfortunate that they have to sit through a whole double lesson for DADA, vibrating out of their skins as they are, but Moody appears to overlook the sudden star-spangled-ness of his students and their unusual enthusiasm. Dinner is equally as torturous a wait, and it’s a miracle the teachers haven’t already put a stop to the obvious festivities being whispered about everywhere they look. Harry overhears a couple of Ravenclaws energetically discussing his approach to the first task. He blushes and ducks his head as he passes and their whispers ramp up in urgency. 

Well, he’s glad the school has stopped actively making his life misery. Mostly.

The Gryffindor common room is in the middle of preparing for the anticipated battle—or rather, party. The crates from the dorm have been brought down and stacked against one wall, revered and honoured and added to by their housemates. A group of girls, Dean and George are doing makeup and hair in one corner, every so often pouncing on unsuspecting friends and dragging them in. Harry and Ron scamper upstairs to change and rejoin the preparations, and are accosted by Ginny almost instantly.

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry!” she cries. “Why haven’t you done something about your clothes yet?”

“What?” he says, slightly taken aback. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They don’t fit you!” she replies. “Here, let us help.”

She stands him in the middle of the rug in front of the fireplace and circles him, taking in his baggy jeans and navy jumper and the probably-wrinkled shirt beneath. She lifts the hem just to check, rolling her eyes when he yelps.

“Right, won’t be a mo’,” she says, and fires off three unannounced spells at him. Not unnerving at all, this woman.

To his intrigue, Harry feels his t-shirt straighten, press itself, and then tuck itself into his jeans. The jeans then begin to shrink and change, pulling up to a proper length and fitting more closely to his thighs and calves. She seems to have kept them slightly loose still, how he likes them. Lastly the jumper shrinks in, morphing from moth-bitten and a bit lumpy to sleek and new and sticking to his ribs.

Someone by the portrait hole whistles loudly, and Ginny winks at him. “All done.”

“Thanks?” Harry says, unsure of the transformation that seems to have taken place.

Ron nods. “Looking good,” he says, and bats off his sister when she tries to shrink _his_ jeans and jumper three sizes too small.

“We can’t go down all at once,” Parvati says loudly over the din, “we’ll have to go in groups and take different routes!”

“I’ll go and get the cloak, shall I?” Harry mutters to Ron. 

“That’s a lovely idea, Harry,” Hermione says, appearing in a whirl at their shoulder. Her hair bounces on her shoulders and glints in the lamplight, otherwise contained in a bun at the back of her head. She’s wearing a sleeveless turtlenecked jumper, forest green and sort of ribbed, over unexpected cuffed jeans and with a large shirt tied around her waist. Harry doesn’t think he’s seen her wear any of it before, but is beginning to question his observational skills anyway.

“You look great, Hermione,” Lavender says, her surprise both evident and mean.

“Thank you,” she smiles. “Shall we go?”

“One second.” Harry grins and pats her shoulder. “She’s right, you look great.”

“Flattery won’t work on me Harry!” she calls after him. 

“It’s true!” he shouts back down the stairs, and returns soon after with the cloak. They step out of the portrait, throwing it over their heads immediately. Ron hands Harry a small crate of Honeyduke’s poached from the stack and they giggle as they make their way down to the dungeons.

Theodore Nott, in very tight black muggle jeans and shirt, is leaning on the brickwork outside the Slytherin common room looking thoroughly bored. They take off the cloak a few feet away just to see him jump, and grin when he rolls his eyes at the stickers on their faces.

“In you go, you bloody Gryffindors,” he says, but nods appreciatively at the food they hand him as compensation. The wall slides back and, from the outside, it looks like nothing’s amiss. The common room is empty, fire roaring, and no noise whatsoever. They each step through, Hermione and Ron disappearing through a rippling bubble before Harry, who follows eagerly and—wow. Someone truly talented has given the place a makeover. 

The room extends at least ten more feet sideways in both directions, leaving the flimsy-looking window into the lake wisely undisturbed. Hermione and Ron in front of him are gazing around at the decorations, the green and silver and blue draped around the ceiling, chandeliers, tapestries and tables. Hundreds of people are already milling about chattering and laughing and throwing themselves and each other around to the very loud music. Harry can see Cho on his left laughing with Susan Bones, a group of Hufflepuff girls chatting to (up) a number of Durmstrang students on his right, and Blaise Zabini (in more head-to-toe black) heading straight for them.

“Hello, my good friends,” he says, smiling. “I’m very glad you could join us for the third monthly committee meeting of the year.” He takes hold of Ron’s shoulder and leads them into the throng. “I do hope you’ll enjoy yourselves. Refreshments are over there by the tapestry of the banshee, and your additions are greatly appreciated.”

“Blaise, you can stop acting like an upstanding member of society now,” Parkinson calls over. She lifts her wand and levitates the crates in their hands to the table Zabini had pointed to, unshrinking them as they go. Harry is distracted by her sharp-looking red nails, and how they match both her lipstick and very short skirt. She otherwise looks to be in keeping with the Slytherins-in-black theme of the night.

“Why Pansy,” Zabini replies, “I _am_ an upstanding member of society!” Ron snorts.

“All right, all right,” Malfoy tuts, strutting over in tight grey jeans and a black shirt. Harry is horrified to realise how appealing it is on him. “Disappointed you could make it, Potter. Didn’t get caught, I presume?”

Harry smirks. “I didn’t have you running your mouth like a puppy, this time.”

“Harry,” Hermione says, glancing around, “I’ll take the cloak. It can go in one of my pockets.”

“A puppy?” Ron frowns, handing over the cloak.

“Well, you see—” Harry begins, but Malfoy strides over and glares him up and down.

“Careful, Potter,” he says. Harry bites his lip and stamps down the urge to tell anyway. He catches Malfoy’s gaze and winks.

“I won’t spill your secrets, _Draco.”_

“Oh, so it’s _Draco_ now, is it?” George asks, surprising Harry by poking him between the shoulder blades. “Potter keeping secrets for Draco, what a concept!”

“Who’s keeping secrets for Draco?” Ginny asks. “Oh, I should have known.”

Draco clicks his tongue, but Harry can see the red rising to his cheeks. “All the Weasels are here, it must be time to brace for impact. I’ll go and find Cassius for you, George, shall I?”

“No need!” George says quickly, slipping backwards into the crowd. “Maybe later!”

“He’s so dramatic,” Ron mutters.

Harry laughs. “Aren’t they both?”

“Where are the cats?” Hermione asks.

Malfoy opens his mouth but Daphne Greengrass beats him to it. “Oh, he palmed them off on my sister, didn’t he!” she giggles. “She isn’t feeling well tonight and wanted to rest so she took them upstairs.”

“That’s good,” Harry says, as Malfoy mutters, “I didn’t palm them off on anyone.”

“So are we calling a truce tonight?” Ginny asks expectantly.

“I don’t know what you mean, Weasley,” Blaise says. “We’re all friends here.”

“As it should be!” Fleur agrees, swooping in to join them. Her dress is flowy and a beautiful lilac, drifting around her calves like the air itself. “Come on, all of you!”

She takes Harry and Hermione gently by the wrists, leading them into the midst of the very, very odd mix of people. Harry talks to her friends from Beauxbatons and she insists they introduce her to all number of people from Hogwarts, even ones they don’t really know. Cedric and Cho dive in to help them soon enough, and Harry can trip his way back onto the sidelines and away from the crowds.

“Cool do,” he tells Nott, who has finally been relieved of door duty. He nods, and hands Harry a chocolate frog from the table.

“Cool flying earlier. Draco screamed when the dragon got free.”

Harry laughs. “It sounded like everyone screamed.”

“Yeah,” Nott scoffs. “Was pretty scary, I guess. Is that Longbottom?”

Harry looks over to where Nott is pointing, catching sight of Neville talking to a pretty blonde in an orange and green dress by the fireplace. “Yeah, looks like it.”

“I need to ask him something. Do you mind?”

“Oh,” Harry blinks, surprised. “Sorry, by all means, go ahead.”

Nott nods again and wanders off, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. Harry sighs and finds a sofa to sit down and eat his chocolate frog, snagging a butterbeer while he’s at it. Davies taps him on the shoulder and compliments his flying, so he throws himself deep into a conversation about Quidditch plays. Ginny joins them some minutes later, tripping over the sofa leg and falling straight into Harry’s lap.

“Sorry!” she yells. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Gin, are you okay?”

“Course I am!” she grins. “Takes more than a fall for your charm and good looks to get me!”

Harry grins back. “Have you seen—oh! Malfoy!” he shouts. “Over here.”

Malfoy, startled and frowning, meanders over from his conversation with a group of Beauxbatons girls. “I don’t know what your prerogative is, Potter, so I’ll ask you to kindly leave me alone,” he grumbles.

“Someone’s had a look at their vocabulary list this week,” Harry mutters under his breath. “I was just going to ask you about this idea Davies had, about formations.”

Malfoy raises a brow and looks to Davies, who jumps right back into his explanation. It’s the first conversation Harry’s really invited Malfoy into, and he knows realistically he hasn’t only done so because he thinks Malfoy’s a good player.

“Harry!” Hermione calls, some time later. Their Quidditch talk has attracted Angelina, Fred, Katie and several others, so as well as Ginny having made herself comfortable partly on Harry’s lap and Malfoy sitting on the back of the sofa, swinging his legs, they have a small gathering on the floor at their feet.

“You all right, Hermione?” he asks. She and Ron pick their way over, minding the number of people they’ve collected. 

“We were looking for you! Should have known you’d be here.”

“Where else?” he asks, though he has no idea what he means. Are they sure butterbeer is non-alcoholic?

“Oh, Cassius!” George shouts suddenly, sloshing a glass of _definitely_ alcoholic something. “Come, come, you know about this.”

Harry glances over to a frowning Warrington, who nonetheless ambles over and hovers beside them.

“Merlin’s sake, sit down!” George demands, grabbing his wrist and yanking. Warrington stumbles and does as he’s told, eyeing George warily. George doesn’t seem to care, other than for the bright red of his ears, and is still throwing his daring and quite mad ideas into the pool.

God knows how next year’s House Cup is going to go.

Harry wakes up on Friday morning with a banging headache.

“Fuck,” he mutters into his pillow.

“You all right mate?” Ron asks, sat up in his own bed.

Harry groans. “How do you get a hangover when you don’t drink?”

“Atmosphere?”

“Piss off.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re about to miss breakfast,” Neville says, coming out of the bathroom.

“Ah, _fuck,”_ Ron says this time. “And we have a full day today.”

“Fuck,” Harry repeats emphatically. He wonders if his brain capacity has somehow shrunk with this pseudo-hangover.

“Harry, did you write to Sirius?” Hermione asks when they find her in the hall.

“Agh,” he says. “I forgot. I’ll have to do it at break.”

She sighs. “Just as long as it does get done.”

“Yep, sure. I’ll do it in class then.” She rolls her eyes. “Binns won’t notice!”

“Kneazles, Granger,” Malfoy interrupts, dumping the box on the bench beside her.

“Oh, I had an idea about that,” Harry says. “We can split them up, right, and take a few every day. That way it isn’t so hard for one person controlling eight cats.”

Malfoy makes a face. “Do we have to?”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Hermione says. “I’ll deal with that this evening. Go on then, there’s no reason to hang around.”

Malfoy puts his hands up in surprised surrender, backing off a few paces before returning to the Slytherin table. Harry looks from him to Hermione, who is back in her notebook and seemingly unconcerned.

“They’re being weird,” Ron mutters. Harry thinks he agrees. There’s a small burst of noise at the Lee Jordan end of the table. They lean forward to see what the fuss is, and everyone goes suspiciously quiet. 

“What are they up to now?” Harry asks.

“Don’t want to know,” Ron replies. He pokes some bread through Leonard’s cage.

Harry spends half of History of Magic writing his letter to Sirius and the other half playing with kittens. He sneaks them out of the crate when Hermione isn’t paying attention and sits them on his desk, letting them sniff at his parchment and bat at his hovering quill. Rosanna meows loudly when she rolls off the table and into his lap. Binns, as expected, does not care in the least. 

They run over to the owlery during the break, where Ron has to snatch Pigwidgeon out of the air to get him to stay still enough for Harry to attach his letter. He throws the poor owl from the window and he plummets, struggling to get the weight of Harry’s rambling letter up out of gravity’s reach. He manages, eventually, while all three of them lean from the sill with slightly guilty expressions.

Flitwick congratulates Harry in Charms, much to his embarrassment when all of Slytherin roll their eyes and Gryffindor give him yet another round of applause. Snape sneers at him over his cauldron in Potions, no doubt ready to murder him at any point. It seems ages before the end of class, but when Neville manages another more than acceptable brew, all of their moods are bolstered near beyond belief. Snape doesn’t even growl when they accidentally slam the door against the wall on their way out.

It takes three whispering groups in the common room for Harry to realise something’s happening. He goes to dinner suspicious and returns _suspicious,_ especially when Hermione drags him away to the kitchens first to talk to Dobby. 

“What’s going on?” he asks as they approach the Fat Lady.

“What do you mean?” she asks, frowning at him as she usually does.

“Is something wrong?” Ron asks.

“Snuffleflump,” Harry says to the portrait, and the door swings open to a cacophony of noise.

“Well done, Harry!” Angelina and Alicia scream, dragging him through much like the night of the Goblet’s choice.

“We thought we’d throw you your own party!” Katie giggles, sitting precariously on Lee’s shoulders. As soon as the portrait swings shut, complaining loudly all the way, several explosive booms fill the room. Fred and George are standing in the middle throwing Filibuster's Fireworks around the place, whooping and yelling and a catastrophe in the making.

“We brought this down from your room!” Seamus says, handing over the heavy, gleaming golden egg Harry’d won from the dragon. “You haven’t opened it yet, have you?”

Harry, pulled farther and farther into the crowd, grins around at all of them and holds the egg aloft. “Who wants me to open it?” he yells. The response is deafening, but he keeps them hanging on anyway. “Huh? Shall I do it? Are you sure?” Neville throws a cushion at him and he laughs, finally twisting the catch and letting the thing fall open in his hands.

An almighty screeching fills the air, piercing enough that Harry almost drops the egg in shock. Everyone around him is yelling and covering their ears, faces contorted with pain, so he scrambles to close it and holds it an arm’s length away from him.

“Well, that was a mistake.” 

Fortunately, everyone laughs, even if it is a bit weak.

“What the hell is that?” Dean asks. “Is it some kind of message?”

“How’s that a message?” Ginny huffs. “It’ll burst your eardrums sooner than tell you anything.”

“Maybe it’s a code!” Colin gasps, but the others around him shrugs.

“Whatever it is, we can work it out later,” Harry says. He heaves it onto a table by the dormitory stairs as everyone gets back into the swing of the party, passing around plates of food and calling loudly for each other’s attention. Someone switches on the record player and Harry happily allows himself to be twisted and turned between all of his friends for conversation and congratulations.

“Want a jam tart, Hermione?” Fred asks, presenting the platter with a hell of a flourish. Harry watches as she looks from Fred to the tarts and back to Fred, utterly unimpressed. Fred, the loon, grins.

“It’s all right, I haven’t done anything to them,” he says. “It’s the custard creams you have to watch—” Neville, having just shoved one of the biscuits into his mouth whole, chokes and tries to spit it out. “Don’t worry! I’m joking!”

Seconds later, a large, bright yellow canary stands in Neville’s place. The room roars with laughter, shuffling closer to see him hop around and ruffle his feathers.

“Sorry, Neville!” Fred shouts. “I forgot, it _was_ the custard creams we hexed!” 

It’s about a minute until Neville reappears, shedding his feathers in an instant and turning up looking just the same as usual. He joins in the laughter and gives George a high five, taking a sworn-untampered bourbon biscuit from his tray.

“When’s the next task, mate?” Ron asks Harry.

“Bagman said it was February twenty-fourth,” Harry replies, half-distracted by the conversation between Hermione and Fred. “At least, I think he did. I hope so.”

“Plenty of time?” Ron ventures.

“Sure. We can figure it out by then.”

“Sure. Of course we can.”

“Potter! Weasley! _Will you pay attention!”_

It’s well into December now, and Thursday's Transfiguration lesson has been over for at least five minutes. Harry looks up, wide-eyed at Professor McGonagall, shoving the rubber haddock his Weasley fake wand had turned into under the desk. Ron does the same with his tin parrot, both pretending they weren’t just having a sword fight with them in the back of her class.

Their professor gives them one of her looks before resettling herself and taking another breath. “Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough to act their age, I would like to talk to you all about the upcoming Yule Ball.” Several of their classmates visibly perk up at the mention. Harry decides that _wary_ is the best way to go, even as the severed head of his haddock drops with a dusty thud to the flagstones. “This is a traditional celebration of the Triwizard Tournament, and a valued opportunity to socialise with our foreign guests. The ball will be open to those at fourth year and above, though you may invite a younger student if you so wish.”

Lavender giggles shrilly from somewhere near the middle of the class. Harry leans over to see Parvati shove her in the shoulder, face working to keep itself straight also. They both glance over at Harry, which McGonagall ignores. Typical.

“Dress robes shall be worn,” she continues, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock, Christmas day, until midnight, in the Great Hall. Now, this may be a good chance to let our hair down, but the standards of behaviour expected of you will not be relaxed! I will be most seriously displeased _and_ disappointed if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way. You are dismissed.” 

There’s a sharp rise in noise as everyone’s chairs shriek against the stone and they scramble all of their papers into their bags. Lavender’s giggles have been joined by Parvati’s, and there’s a huge clamour of discussion about the ball.

“Potter, a word!” the Professor says over the din, and Harry traipses up towards her, headless haddock still clutched in his hand. She frowns at it for a split second, as if confused by its state, before levelling him with a placid gaze. “Potter, the champions and their partners—”

“Partners?” Harry interrupts. Professor McGonagall looks at him with a sort of exasperated pity he doesn’t much like.

“Dance partners, Mr Potter. The champions and their dance partners traditionally open the ball. You shall be required to participate.”

“Dance partners,” Harry repeats. “I have to dance.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I really don’t dance.”

“You do now.”

“No, I mean,” Harry flounders. “I’ve never danced in my life.”

“That will be changed shortly,” she says. “I expect you to find yourself a partner, Potter, and soon. Take Mr Weasley, if you have to. Off you go now.”

“Thank you, Professor. I think.”

She smiles at him, but only slightly. “You’ll be fine, Potter.”

Harry turns back to Ron and Hermione waiting for him at the door, snatching his bag and the cat sub-crate off his desk as he passes. “I’m so stuffed.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Hermione sighs. She’s holding open the door and smiling in that way that means she thinks he’s funny.

“Who are you going to ask?” Ron prods, malevolent grin plastered on.

Harry rolls his eyes and strides out into the corridor. “I don’t know, Ron, I don’t bloody know. It’s not like you’re free of this either. Everyone’s going to be taking someone.”

He deflates slightly. “Ah. Shit.”

“Well, you’d better get your act together soon,” Hermione says. “Less than three weeks to go!”

Although undoubtedly better than the period immediately post-Great Goblet Debacle, Harry considers the next week a living nightmare. Neither can he find the courage nor drive to walk up to a girl and ask her out to the ball. Not even on Professor McGonagall’s pain of death. 

“Why do they move in packs?” he even asks Ron one day. “How’re you supposed to get on on their own?”

“Lasso them,” is Ron’s only suggestion. He doesn’t take it.

Three different girls ask him out over those few days, all from different houses and not his year group, and precisely none of which have ever actually spoken to him before. He turns each of them down, getting progressively redder in the face as time goes by, and his dorm mates don’t let him live a single one of them down.

By Friday all the constant talk of dancing and dates has Harry both exhausted and tied up in knots. He lies in his bed in the dormitory, staring unseeingly up at the canopy and listening to Ron’s snores. 

God, he thinks, how far away he is from the dull and painful life he had at Privet Drive, where the people are as nosy as they are incredibly judgemental. 

He thinks of Hermione, how clever and sharp she is, how pretty she is when Ginny or Fred or Fleur makes her blush, and exactly the words Uncle Vernon would have for her if she were ever to have the misfortune of meeting him. Horrible ones, ones Harry had heard said so often and so cruelly about utter strangers.

 _Foreign,_ Harry has caught himself tagging onto his descriptions of people on more than one occasion. He’s lucky it’s succeeded by instant horror and mortification at the learned, ingrained motion to single people out; it's not as if they’re actually much different compared to _himself,_ god no. Even looking back now, he decides he has no idea how he ever survived his relatives’ bigotry. Why Uncle Vernon had ever let him out of the house when he was so clearly not one of them. How lucky he is to still be alive, despite being both queer _and_ ‘foreign’—

_Hold on._

Queer.

_Who decided this?_

_Since when?_

He frowns, barely restraining his knee-jerk reaction to cross out the idea immediately. He’s not… Well, Hermione said so herself: there’s nothing wrong with it. He’s not scared of the possibility. Better not to leap head-first to conclusions, though.

He thinks of Cho, then, and the way Ginny looks at him sometimes when she sees him enter the room. As previously established, Hermione is one of his most invaluable friends, but still objectively very pretty. He thinks of Ron's easy laugh and the way he scrunches his brow and chews his tongue when he concentrates. Now that he thinks about it, he decides that Dean and Seamus seem to at least fancy each other a little bit—the tiniest bit, so quiet, the kind that comes with loud public proclamations of love in the corridors—and that Cedric _is_ rather handsome, never mind what Ron says.

Several other faces slip in and out of mind (Bill, the twins, Abbott, Goldstein, Greengrass) until, unbidden, a memory from last year resurfaces in vibrant defiance. 

Draco Malfoy saunters towards him, moments before his accident with Buckbeak. Harry almost bolts upright in shock, but once again pauses, letting his thoughts play through. Malfoy gives him a look, all the way down and up again, and a taunting raise of his eyebrows. Harry shivers. He discovers a sudden urge to know what Malfoy had been thinking. He hadn’t even noticed at the time, so basted with his own anger as he was. 

Fearful of what he might find, Harry turns his mind to find similarities. Their bizarre argument in the courtyard the other day: Draco, smug, lounging around in a tree as if it were a perfectly standard thing for him to be doing. Draco, leaping down and giving Harry another one of those inexplicable once-overs, still with the flash of challenge in an eyebrow. The way he squares up to Harry with that grin, revelling in how he gets under Harry’s skin, only to be completely wrong-footed when he’s complimented instead.

Harry’s reluctance to see the joke in Moody tormenting him.

Cedric pulling Harry aside, behind the suit of armour, and the way it had sent his heart to his throat. Ginny falling into his lap and the heat that had set off inexplicable shivers. Ron’s arm resting gently around his waist. Hermione staring up at him in her attractive party clothes. Draco’s hand brushing his beneath the cloak.

Draco sending little hand-drawn notes, the cranes Ron hates, fluttering into his hands. His smirks in the hallways that make Harry’s very being itch. The way the light gives him that look in his eye that Harry has noticed in every interaction since the beginning of term. His pristine uniform and fitted trousers, and the considering way Hermione’s been looking at Harry for weeks.

 _Oh no,_ says the voice of Harry’s unwelcome realisation. _I am queer._

He'd thought it had been a _joke._

At least Draco’s less of a bastard, now.

“Snape’s a right bastard, isn’t he?” Ron says, the Saturday before the end of term. “Setting us a test right before we break up—on antidotes! I hope he doesn’t bloody well want to poison us while he’s at it.”

“Mmm,” Hermione hums, not looking up from her revision. “You don’t exactly seem to be pushing yourself, though.”

Ron is, in fact, building a card tower on a table in front of the common room fire with a pack of exploding snap cards. It’s like building a normal tower, but with the added thrill of the possibility of it blowing up at any time.

“It’s Christmas,” Harry says lazily from his very comfy armchair.

“And you’re not doing much constructive!” Hermione turns on him. “How long until the next task?”

“Long enough,” he mumbles. “I’ll do it, I promise.”

“C’mon, he deserves a bit of a break,” Ron says, just as the card tower blows up and singes his eyebrows.

“Love the new look!” George says, plonking himself down on the sofa beside him.

“I think it’ll look great with your dress robes,” Fred agrees, leaning over the back cushions. “Now, could we borrow Pigwidgeon?”

“No, he’s off delivering something,” Ron says, frowning at the damage. “What d’you want him for, anyway?”

“George wants to invite him to the ball, of course!” Fred grins. George tuts and smacks at his face. 

_“Because,_ we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat.”

Ron wrinkles his nose. “Who d’you two keep writing to, anyway?”

“Nose out, or I’ll burn that for you too,” Fred says, waving his wand around. “Anyway, you lot got dates for the ball? I heard Miss Granger has an admirer!”

Hermione flusters and tries to hide herself back in her papers. “Nothing of the sort.” Ron and Harry exchange surprised glances.

“We don’t,” Ron sighs. “Who have you got?”

“Angelina,” Fred says, not embarrassed in the slightest. Harry flicks his eyes to Hermione, who is most certainly not reading any of the page she’s on.

“What?” Ron says. “When’d you ask her?”

Fred puffs out a cheek. “Good point. Hey, Angelina!” he calls.

Angelina, talking to Alicia on the other side of the hearth, looks up. “What?”

“Want to go to the ball with me?”

She gives him a once over— _that! That’s what Draco keeps doing!_ —and an appraising sort of look. “All right, then.” She returns easily to Alicia, smiling this time.

“There, all done,” Fred says, grinning. George rolls his eyes. 

“I’m thinking I really might just take Ron and be done with it,” Harry grumbles. “McGonagall would be to blame for that, anyway.”

Ron tilts his head to the side. “People would think you’re bent though, wouldn’t they?”

Harry shrugs, feeling his heart race in his chest even as he keeps his expression firmly impassive. “Makes things a bit easier then, doesn’t it.”

Hermione lifts her nose from her books at that, smiling widely. Ron looks greatly taken aback, and the eyebrows on both twins have climbed their foreheads. No one around is listening, keeping the moment blessedly private.

“I’m proud of you,” Hermione says, tone much less excitable than her expression. Harry appreciates the attempt at subtlety, at least.

He shrugs again. “Can’t go around a complete idiot forever.”

“You could,” George suggests, just as Fred knocks the side of his head and stands, stretching upward.

“Let’s go find a school owl,” he says. They both ruffle Harry’s hair as they amble past. He squawks and struggles away, but their arms are just too long to evade.

Dates... dates...

Harry tries to think of someone to ask, preferably someone who won’t hex him, and somehow comes up a bit short. Nearby the Gryffindor girls are sitting together chatting, and it pokes at the memory of his silent promise to Ginny.

He gets up, puts his book down, and meanders over to lean on the back of the sofa she’s sitting on. He forces himself to calm down, but his heart hasn’t even stopped its percussion solo from two minutes ago.

“Hey, Ginny,” he says with completely false bravado, “would you like to go to the ball with me?”

Her friends giggle and hide their mouths behind their hands. Lavender whispers loudly to a girl with very blonde hair.

Ginny looks up and smiles, but wrinkles her nose. It hits him, then, just how pretty she is.

“I hate to hurt your feelings, Harry, but I already have a handsome date to whisk me off my feet.”

“We all know that you’d be the one doing any whisking, Gin,” Hermione calls.

“Hey!” Neville protests from a nearby armchair. Harry raises an eyebrow, and he goes a bit pink.

“It’s nothing personal Longbottom, but we all know it’s true. It’s Ginny after all!” laughs one of the friends.

Neville sighs good-naturedly. “Y-Yeah, very true...”

“Weren’t you going to ask Cho?” Ginny asks.

Harry starts. “How’d you know?”

“I just do.”

“Oh, well. Friends always come first though, right?”

“I would have said yes, promise,” Ginny snickers, “even if it’s because going with you is better than not being able to go.”

Harry slaps a hand to his face. “Oh yeah! You’re a third-year!” 

She laughs disbelievingly. “Are we sure you survived that dragon? This isn’t just a daydream I’ve conjured up out of shock?”

“Very funny,” Harry says.

“Wait, isn’t Cho Chang going out with Cedric Diggory?” says one of the girls. Harry probably ought to find out their names.

“Oh, crap, really?” he asks. His heart flips uncomfortably yet again.

She winces. “Sorry...” 

“No, no… you’re saving me…” He scrubs at his boiling face and sighs.

“I’ll go with you Harry!” says Parvati happily.

“What, really?” he asks, bewildered. “You would take me? I mean, you’d go with me?” All of them laugh, and he flushes even harder.

“You're still popular, I promise,” she giggles. “And us folk have to stick together, you know?”

Harry smiles. “Well… That’s great. I would love to go to the ball with you Parvati. I just, er, hope you can put up with my terrible dancing. You do have a reputation to uphold.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” she replies with playful menace.

“It’s so lonely you know?” Harry sighs in sudden false sorrow, buoyed by his success. “Hermione has a date she’s all in a flap about, being so secretive and all… If Seamus and Dean don’t go together I might just reevaluate everything I know—and Neville and Ginny!” he cries, placing the back of a hand over his forehead dramatically. “The betrayal! I thought I’d be all alone! With Ron, of course.”

“Oh, can it, Potter!” Lavender cackles. “You’re not totally undesirable. It’s true some may take more convincing than beating a dragon, but...”

The group laughs again, and Harry grins. Ron gives him a thumbs up too.

Thank Christ. Maybe this ball won’t be the disaster he thought it would.

Nearly a week later, Harry climbs through the portrait with Hermione, wondering where the hell Ron has gotten to. It isn’t like him to miss dinner at all, and they’d been there for over half an hour. Hermione had been bored enough without their bickering to turn on Harry and ask _when he knew,_ and it had taken all his willpower not to burst into flames and instead pretend he had no idea what she was talking about, other than _it’s both, by the way._

Brilliantly, they almost stumble over their missing friend on their way in. 

“Oh Merlin,” Ron is saying, Ginny sat on the sofa beside him and rubbing his shoulder.

“Ron?” Harry asks. “What’s wrong?”

“He just got asked to the ball,” Ginny grins up at him. “Right in the Entrance Hall.”

“We didn’t see that,” Hermione says, frowning. “Who was it?”

“Oh, you should’ve been there! It was—” Ron turns suddenly and claps both of his hands to her mouth, almost pushing her off balance.

“Don’t! No! It—It’s a surprise!” he yelps, and looks like he very much regrets a lot of things.

“What?” Harry says. “What’s going on?”

“A surprise?” Hermione asks. Ron groans. Ginny, of course, is cackling.

“Ron, the new popular man?” Seamus shouts. “Get the news while it’s hot! And I really do mean smoking!”

“Yeah, so’s his date!” Ginny yells back.

“You said yes?” Hermione says, surprisingly disturbed by the idea. “Do you know her?”

“We’ve spoken,” Ron mumbles, face absolutely burning. Harry sits down on the sofa and pats him on the back a few times. 

“I’m happy for you, mate, but why’s it a secret?”

“Just… You’ll know why.”

“If you say so. Now, want something to eat? We brought you a couple of chicken drumsticks…”

“Potter,” Malfoy says, sitting down on the bench beside him. His voice lacks the customary unimpressed drawl, and Harry frowns very carefully at him. Maybe the Gryffindors are getting used to their mortal enemies turning up at their table, or maybe they just think it’s all a trick. Either way, the lack of glares and shocked faces has Harry worried for everyone’s sanity, despite his and Draco’s maybe-budding camaraderie. Maybe.

“Ronald, Harry, Hermione!” Fleur greets, sitting herself opposite, between Ron and Dean. “It is good to see you all.”

“Hey Fleur,” Harry says. “It’s been a while.”

She waves her hand about vaguely. “We ended up busier than expected, I got distracted, and Draco refused to join me most of the time. What is the news with you?”

“Hermione and Ron both have mystery dates they’re not telling anyone about,” Harry says gleefully, passing her a bowl of beef stew. She digs in gratefully.

“Mystery my arse,” Draco smirks. The three turn on him sharply. “What? I won’t tell.”

“You know?” Harry says. “Why am I the only one who doesn’t!”

“Who knows,” he replies, eyes wandering around and looking anywhere but at him. “So, has the great Gryffindor champion found a suitable partner?”

Harry tries his best to take the weird casualness of the conversation in his stride. “Parvati took pity on me. You going with anyone?”

“Of course. Blaise abandoned me, but Pansy isn’t so bad.”

Harry licks gravy off his bottom lip and thinks about that, and definitely not his newly understood attraction to his rival. His rival who just admitted he was thinking about going to the ball with a man. Ron makes a choking noise opposite, but otherwise doesn’t say anything.

“I think your decorations are gorgeous,” Fleur says, driving them away from the more dangerous (dangerous for Harry’s heart more than anything else) territories. Harry lets their chatting wash over him, mostly, happy to sit out and panic uselessly in his own mind. 

Fleur is right, of course. The staff this year have really outdone themselves, with freshly polished, singing suits of armour, endless strings of real holly and fir and dozens upon dozens of towering conifers, all covered in snow. There are live faeries and little golden owls all over, and everything glitters with frost and house-coloured ornaments. Even the charmed bloody mistletoe is back, though Harry suspects it’s Fred and George again rather than a new Christmas staple. He’s already narrowly missed being caught with Neville twice this morning.

“Potter,” says Malfoy, and Harry is aware of it. Vaguely. He hums.

“Potter. _Potter.”_

“Yes!” Harry jumps, wrenching out of his daydream.

Malfoy gives him a very odd look. Actually, a look that more says that _he’s_ being very odd. “Your goblet’s empty.”

Harry looks to the goblet in his hand and realises that yes, he has been trying to drink from an empty cup for several minutes. He sighs and puts it down, ears burning. 

“So, figured out the next task?”

“No.”

“Shame.” Malfoy takes a drink from his own goblet. Each of their silences seem to be getting more awkward, as if that were possible. “Are you leaving the cats in your dorm yet? I think they’re old enough. Granger said something about it.”

“I suppose. Hey, Hermione, can we leave the cats in the dorm?”

Hermione looks over from scribbling distractedly in her notebook. “As long as you leave them with water and something to do.”

“Oh, sure.”

Ron grimaces when they all fall weirdly silent again. Harry bites harshly into a piece of toast and tries to blame it on that.

“Right,” Draco sighs. “I’m off. Couldn’t bear to think what would happen if I hung around here too long. See you around.”

Harry watches him go, hand raised weakly to wave him out. His friends farther down the table are snickering loudly.

Ah, what the hell.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas morning at Hogwarts has always been a thing of wonder. 

It’s dark when Harry wakes up, and at first he isn’t certain why he has. It’s a few seconds later when he sees the huge glinting eyes leering at him from a few inches away, and he yells out.

“Dobby!” he cries, shuffling backwards so quickly he almost falls out of bed and smacks his head on his nightstand. “What are you doing here?”

Dobby grins up at him. “Dobby is wanting to wish Harry Potter a Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Dobby. Just maybe don’t lean over me next time, okay? Give me a prod or something.”

“Harry?” Ron asks outside the bed curtains. 

Harry flips them back to see he, Neville, Seamus and Dean peering through their own at him. “Sorry, Dobby came to visit. Go back to sleep.”

“Nah,” Seamus says, grinning at the pile at the end of his bed, “presents!”

The others nod in gleeful agreement, deciding suddenly that they actually aren’t tired at all. Harry turns back to Dobby and tries to give him his kindest smile. 

“Can Dobby give Harry Potter a present too?” Dobby asks.

“Er, yeah, of course,” Harry says. “I have one for you too, hold on.” It’s a complete lie, but he doesn’t think he could take Dobby’s kindness without giving something in return. He leans over the side of his bed and into his sock drawer, pulling out one of his least-used (and least holey) pairs of socks. “Sorry I forgot to wrap them,” he says.

“Socks!” Dobby exclaims. “Thank you Harry Potter, socks is Dobby’s favourite clothes!” He pulls them on immediately, the purple working wonders with his bauble-toggled tea cosy hat. He pulls out a small package of brown paper and presents it to Harry. 

“Dobby be making these hisself!” he announces. “Dobby is buying the wool with his wages!”

Harry grins and unwraps the paper, pulling out two starkly mismatched woolen (surprise, surprise) socks. One is his house red and patterned with broomsticks, while the other is a deep green and covered ankle to toe in little golden snitches.

“Thank you, Dobby!” he says, pulling them over his frozen toes. “These must have taken ages.”

“Harry Potter is very welcome!” Dobby squeaks. “I have to go now, we is making Christmas dinner.” He disappears with a sharp pop, and Harry looks over to his friends and their presents.

Ron is unwrapping his annual jumper from his mother, this year paired with some wonderfully violet socks. “What is it with the socks,” he mutters, and then dives excitedly to retrieve his gift from Harry.

Harry himself gets more homemade mince pies than he can eat and a wonderfully green jumper from Mrs Weasley, this one with a large picture of a dragon; Charlie’s already told her all about the horntail, then. His aunt and uncle send him a single tissue; an all-time low, and possibly punishment for Fred and George’s Ton-Tongue Toffee trick.

Sirius’ box is the most exciting. Inside is a small penknife, chrome and with a dark wood grip, including tools to unlock any lock and undo any knot. In the lid of the box is a note and a small photograph. On it reads, _For our Harry with much love from Moony, Padfoot & Prongs, _ in what is unmistakably the handwriting of their previous Defense professor, and, _send our good wishes to Ron and Hermione,_ in Sirius’ heavier scrawl. The photograph falls out of the box and into his hand, and he can’t help the noise that wrenches itself from his throat at the sight. 

A younger Remus Lupin sits with both Lily and James Potter in what he supposes is their house in Godrick’s Hollow. They’re laughing, happy, and looking from each other to the camera with heartwarming tenderness.

After a moment, Harry set the box and photo aside carefully, and begins ripping into the rest of the paper packages. Hermione gets him the newest quidditch dissect and Ron a large bag of dungbombs, and Hagrid has sent the biggest box of sweets Harry’s ever seen. It includes all of his favourites and few he hasn’t even heard of, and so he makes a note to give him an extra big hug when he sees him at lunch.

Lunch, the next event on the Hogwarts Christmas itinerary. 

Having gathered over time into the vibrance of the common room, the whole house seems to up and take their leave all at once to head for the Great Hall. Harry can see Colin leaping up and down several metres in front of him, and Ginny off to the side clinging to the legs of the girl currently balanced on her shoulders. All of them are drowned in woolen jumpers in, mostly, varying shades of red and gold, and also a lot of glitter, because Fred keeps setting off bunches of handmade party poppers.

The house tables have gone out the window, as always, and people are rushing about shrieking and chattering like never before. There are possibly a thousand turkeys and plates of roast potatoes, entire cooked hams and mountains of vegetables and actual boatfuls of gravy. Harry, looking for any remaining spaces to sit, spies Cho, Cedric, Krum and Fleur all in one and beelines for them, only to realise too late that with them comes—

“Malfoy,” Ron mutters. “Really?”

Harry keeps his head up and slides deftly onto the bench beside their favourite ferret. “Hello everyone!” he says. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas Harry!” Cho chirps, grinning and ferreting for a cracker to pull.

“Joyeux Noël,” Fleur smiles. 

Krum nods. “Crăciun fericit.”

Harry pulls the cracker Cho finds for him. She wins a bright orange pirate’s hat and throws more crackers to Ron and Hermione, as if they’d lose out when there are piles of them all over the place. Harry assumes she just really likes Christmas crackers.

“Draco darling,” Pansy cackles. “Aren’t you going to join in?” Harry notices then that Draco is leaning back slightly, staring at him with no minor trepidation, and ignoring her.

“What?” he asks, and gestures to the other champions. “I thought we were doing a meet up.”

Draco’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes flick over him. “You have glitter on your face.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a small cloud of the stuff and making them all jump back. “Courtesy of the Weasleys.”

“Oi Harry!” George yells with suspicious timing. “You want a go pulling my cracker?”

“Oh, go on then!” he yells back, making a face to complement his innuendo. George scrambles over and waggles the cracker in his face, and even though it looks just like all the rest, Harry holds it right at the end of his reach.

“One, two, three!” their friends all chant from across the hall, and Harry’s ruthless yank is rewarded with the largest fountain of glitter yet. It’s the size of at least three of their party poppers and drifts over more than half the hall.

“It’s all edible!” Fred hollers. “Just spicing things up a bit!”

 _“George Weasley!”_ Professor McGonagall shouts, and suddenly, the twins are nowhere to be seen.

“You have glitter on your face,” Harry tells Draco when he reclaims his seat. Draco rolls his eyes so dramatically Harry thinks he’ll strain them.

Fred and George conveniently reappear when most of Gryffindor, the champions, and their friends are all stumbling out into the snow. Shrieks of laughter echo off the stonework and out onto the fields of icy white, rising in pitch and volume as the first brave souls scoop up handfuls of the stuff and lob them at everyone else. Hermione, wisely, climbs a nearby tree in an attempt at escape, though several snowballs stray close by. Ron spots Draco standing below her dangling feet and winks at Harry, sneaking off quietly on his own. Seconds later there’s a scream and a shriek of laughter, and Hermione almost falls off her branch. Draco swats at Ron, who is positively howling, and has drawn his shoulders right to his ears where a large clump of snow has been shoved down the back of his cloak. 

“All right there Granger?” Fred yells.

“Brilliant!” she replies, once she’s got her giggles under control.

“I told you he likes screaming,” says Theodore Nott, an unexpectedly vicious member of the snowfight and in the middle of wrestling Neville off his back.

“Stop being a wuss and fight back!” Pansy yells.

“Wuss!” Ginny taunts. “Chicken!”

“Come on Malfoy, is that all you’ve got?” Harry adds.

Draco shakes out the last of the snow and turns around with a dramatic flare of his cloak. “Oh, you’re _on!”_

“You’ve gotta catch us first!” Seamus grins and hares off across the grounds. There are a lot more magical projectiles in the air, after that.

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean and Neville change into their dress robes up in the dormitory. Harry can barely get the buttons right, much less tie his neck thing—bowtie. Ron is surveying himself in the mirror and looks moments away from combusting due to mortification.

“How do I look?” Seamus asks, brandishing himself in the middle of the room.

“Er,” Harry says. “With your eyes?”

Seamus gives him a ridiculous look and turns hopefully to Dean.

“Harry,” Ron says faintly, “I can’t wear this.”

Harry taps his wand against his palm. The robes are quite atrocious, really, but there’s nothing Harry knows how to do that could fix them. “None of us have anything else…”

With a large swallow Ron turns out the insides of his cuffs. He picks up his wand and slices off the lace, which makes him look a fair sight better already, but there wasn’t really much to go on in the first place. Charlie rattles in her cage on Ron’s nightstand, climbing the bars and performing impressive acrobatics for a nonexistent audience.

“No,” Ron says, “I really can’t go in this, it’s not good enough, I—”

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, placing his hand gently on Ron’s shoulder. “How about I go and find someone to help?”

“Would you?” he asks, and he looks so distressed that Harry’s not sure even Ginny would say no. Harry hurries downstairs and sighs in relief when he finds Parvati in the common room. She looks stunning in her bright pink robes; her neckline just traces the underside of her collarbone, allowing perfect space for her sparkling set of necklaces. Her skirts are probably genuine silk and are a shimmering tapestry of golden embroidery. She has a gauzy cape draped over one shoulder and cinched at her waist on the opposite side. Her hair is braided down her chest with golden threads and several shiny gold bangles jingle on her wrists.

“Hello, Harry, that was quick!” she says with a smile. “Why do you look so worried? You look good.”

“Parvati, you look wonderful,” he says, letting her giggle before he grimaces. “It’s Ron, upstairs. Would you… Do you know anyone willing to help?”

She sighs. “Go on, lead the way.”

They find Ron exactly where Harry had left him, only now he’s hiding in his hands and they’re not entirely sure he’s not crying. Parvati stands back and surveys him, twirling her wand between her fingers and sending out a shower of pink bubbles. They make the room smell like what he’d imagine the ocean on a desert island might smell like.

“Weasley, these are what your mother sent you, aren’t they?” she asks.

Ron jumps, emerging from behind his hands. “Yeah—uh, yes, they are.”

“Good, they’ll probably be quite malleable, then.”

Parvati holds out her wand and draws a circle over the floor between them. Ron’s robes begin to shift, and both Harry and Ron look on in wonder. The offensive frilly lengths that Ron had bemoaned remove themselves entirely. As Parvati circles her wand the bodice reshapes itself to sit more flatteringly on Ron’s body. It pulls in at the waist and pleats at the cinch she creates at the back, creating what looks like a smartly flaring knee-length tailcoat. She turns the material a deep burgundy, and whatever old fashioned pattern it had been in seems to iron itself out before their eyes. 

Parvati drops her wand and takes a couple of breaths. “I’m not sweating for you, Weasley. If you want that ruffle fixed you’re going to have to find someone else.”

Ron gazes down at himself, blinking rapidly. “Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much.”

“Come on,” she says, finally quirking a smile. “Let’s go and find someone. I’ll hijack my sister if needs be.”

Harry holds open the door for her and smiles widely as she passes. She rolls her eyes and taps his own robes a few times with her wand. The black shifts minutely to a dark bottle green.

“Has he told you who he’s going with yet?” she asks.

“No,” he replies, tucking his own wand away in his pocket. 

At the bottom of the stairs they’re met by a refreshed babble of excitement. Harry spies Ginny over by the fireplace in something pink and odd-looking which Lavender looks to be assisting with amending. Parvati walks straight up to Angelina Johnson and taps her arm, indicating Ron and Harry still hovering by the dormitory stairs. Angelina quirks a brow at Harry but wanders over anyway, looking quite gorgeous in sleeveless mulberry velvet. 

“Fred not shown yet?” Harry asks.

She grins. “Not yet. How can I help you boys?”

“Ron’s frills,” Parvati says. “I’m better at changing the shape and colour than the fiddly bits.”

Angelina nods and assesses Ron’s predicament, studiously ignorant of his rising blush as she does so. She runs her wand over his dress shirt and seems to persuade it to absorb all of the frills. It’s quite impressive. 

“Brilliant,” Ron says weakly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Angelina grins. “We all have our house pride, after all.” She jabs her wand towards Harry and he yelps as everything he’s wearing tightens to follow the lines of his body.

“Hey!” he protests. “What is it with people fixing my clothes?”

“It’s because they’re always at least a size too big,” Parvati says. “You end up swamped.”

“There isn’t much there in the first place,” he mutters.

“Angie, darling!” Fred says, loudly, as he throws open the dormitory door. “I hope you aren’t stealing these young things away from their dates?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Angelina replies lightly. She smiles and takes his arm, and he winks to Harry, Ron and Parvati as they make their glamorous exit.

“How’d he manage to get her to agree,” Ron mumbles. “Honestly…”

“Shall we go?” Parvati asks hopefully. Harry, shamelessly copying Fred, offers her his arm. She smiles and takes it, and they make their nervous way down to the Great Hall. Hundreds of students are already milling around the Entrance Hall waiting for eight o’clock when the doors would be thrown open. Parvati almost runs quite literally into her sister, who twirls about in matching robes of turquoise on the arm of Terry Boot. They hover around, chatting to passing friends and gaping at some of the weird and wonderful and gorgeous sets of robes that flounce by.

“I really wonder where Hermione’s gone,” Ron says. “She is coming, isn’t she?”

“I’m pretty sure she is,” Harry says.

Just then, a group of Slytherins come up the stairs from their common room. Draco is in the lead, with black velvet robes that Harry thinks make him look like a vicar. Even so, a very attractive one. On his arm is the blonde girl Harry had seen with Neville at the inter-school party. She has hair as pale as Draco’s and has swapped her orange and green dress for lovely, glittery blue robes. Pansy Parkinson is wearing something floaty and green (no surprises), and is quickly approached by one of their Beauxbatons friends, who’s wearing a hijab in the same green and a set of lovely silver robes. Crabbe and Goyle look like a couple of glowering, mossy boulders, but Nott and Zabini are chatting amicably as they stroll through the throng. Zabini, in his grey velvet, comes to a stop in front of Harry, Ron and Parvati.

“Ronald,” he says, and smiles.

“Za—er, Blaise,” Ron stammers, swallowing hard. Harry stares between them, suddenly seeing everything fall into place. 

“You look rather dashing tonight. And here I was listening to Draco whine about your fashion choices?”

“It’s all Parvati and Angelina,” Ron says quickly. “I really don’t know anything about clothes.”

Blaise laughs, and the sound somehow reverberates through all of them despite the surrounding clamour. “I’m sure we can fix that. Now, would you care to accompany me this evening?”

Ron looks between Blaise’s proffered arm and his face and swallows again. He nods, and very cautiously tucks his hand into Blaise’s elbow. Harry can’t help the ridiculous grin that forces its way through. It probably makes him look like a lunatic, but Parvati is too busy giggling at Ron to notice. Blaise looks very pleased with himself, and Harry gets the impression that Ron is in good hands.

The front doors swing open behind them. Everyone in the Entrance Hall turns to watch as the Durmstrang company stride through. Krum is out in the lead with a gorgeous girl in blue robes that Harry doesn’t recognise.

“Champions, over here please!” calls Professor McGonagall. Parvati beams excitedly at Harry and they both say a quick ‘See you later,’ to Ron and Blaise before they run off. The crowd parts for them, unnervingly enough, and they soon find themselves in front of McGonagall in her red tartan.

The champions are ushered over to either side of the doors to greet the parade of their peers. Harry and Parvati take the same side as Fleur and Roger Davies, who looks utterly floored by his luck and can hardly take his eyes off his partner. Harry returns Fleur’s pleased smile and looks across to the others, and at the girl in the pale blue. He hears Parvati gasp beside him.

It’s _Hermione._

Hermione looks up and meets their eyes shyly. Harry feels like breaking all formality and shouting across to her, but manages to settle for grinning madly (again). Parvati seems to be vibrating out of her skin, nodding encouragement despite her obvious shock. Hermione laughs and relaxes into Viktor’s side, and Harry is happy for her.

The doors to the Great Hall creak open, and the inward procession begins. Harry waves to Ron, who looks a bit like he’s going to be sick with nerves. He and Blaise wave back. Malfoy stalks past, gawks at Hermione, and then to everyone’s surprise, nods to Harry. Even Harry would have passed it off as a greeting to Fleur had he not met Harry’s eyes as he’d gone by. Aren’t they all full of surprises tonight. Harry’s beginning to feel bloody boring in comparison.

Through the crowd, Harry catches George’s eye. He waves, looking very softly pleased with himself, walking next to none other than Cassius Warrington. How he’d managed that, Harry would have to ask, though he notices they’re definitely not arm in arm. He can’t imagine Warrington giving in easily, even if he hadn’t been entirely disinterested before. Harry wonders what his family’s stance on a Weasley would be.

Once every last straggler has settled themselves in the hall, McGonagall wrangles the champions into a line and has them follow her into the hall. The floor looks like an ice rink without the danger—glazed snow white with hints of a cold, sharp blue, though it still feels like solid stone underfoot. Parvati hangs off Harry’s arm and appears to enjoy herself immensely, and Harry feels a sudden companionship with the horses that Uncle Vernon always watches be paraded around at Epsom Derby. The eight of them are met with thundering applause from everyone at the new, round, lantern-lit tables. Padma waves exuberantly to her sister as they go by, headed up to a large round table at the top of the hall. The judges are already seated there, though Harry realises on closer approach that instead of Barty Crouch, Percy Weasley is sitting in the fifth seat along.

Dinner is… Well, dinner is almost torturous. He’s lucky Percy peters off when Parvati pointedly starts conversation with Harry over him, because he’s sure he’d be listening to all of the most boring goings on in the Ministry by now. Of course, she’s almost certainly aware that half of what she’s saying is going right over Harry’s head—he really is trying to listen, promise—because he keeps catching snippets of conversation from down the table.

“Now now, Viktor!” Igor Karkaroff says, cutting across a genuinely interesting description of life at Durmstrang. 

“…and when we went out to see, it turns out that those Weasley twins of yours ’ad just decided to make us a fireworks display!” Fleur says brightly. Her laughter tinkles across the hall, easily distracting at least half of the occupants at the nearest tables, including Parvati, Cedric and Krum. Davies keeps missing his mouth with his fork. Harry tries not to laugh, really he does.

“…When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished,” Dumbledore is saying. 

“What was I saying? Oh yes, Lavender and I were—”

“You’re really close with Lavender,” Harry says suddenly, looking up and meeting her eyes warmly.

Parvati blinks. “Oh, well. Yes. I like her a lot.”

“As in, _like_ her like her, or…?” She gapes, and he realises what he’s just said. “Oh, shit, sorry, I’m so sorry, that was really insensitive, wasn’t it? I really… I should keep my mouth shut…”

“…I never took you as one to talk about crushes, Harry,” she says eventually.

He smiles wryly. “I’m not.”

Parvati nods and takes a sip from her goblet. “Made any interesting discoveries recently, then?”

“How could you tell?” he snorts. 

“Oh, you’ve never been interested in people’s affairs before,” she says lightly, smiling knowingly. “You took me by surprise.”

“Took myself by surprise, too.”

It seems that the moment every plate in the room is abandoned, they all vanish at once. Dumbledore stands and beckons for everyone else to follow, and with a wave of his wand all of the tables rearrange themselves to provide refreshments and seating at the back of the hall. He conjures a raised platform to the side of the head table, onto which stumps a musical group Harry has never seen before. A set of drums, several guitars, a keyboard, lute, and cello are all present on the stage and quickly taken up by the musicians. 

These must be the Weird Sisters; they arrive to what McGonagall would pronounce terribly uncouth whooping applause, are all very hairy, dressed in black, and have chosen very particular, artistic places in which to tear their robes.

“Harry,” Parvati hisses out of the side of her mouth. Harry looks up and realises that all of the lanterns on the tables have dimmed, and that the other champions and their partners are standing up. He hurries to his feet and to help Parvati over to the floor, taking up position as one of four points on this Triwizard compass. He mixes up his hands and gets glared at and forcefully corrected, all luckily in time for the first few notes of the night.

Harry turns with Parvati around the floor at much the same pace as the others. She smiles and he manages to keep off her toes, and they take the lifts with an awkward fumbling even if they do manage to land them, in the end.

It seems entirely too long before Professor McGonagall steps out onto the floor on the arm of Professor Dumbledore, and all of the teachers begin to follow suit. Parvati steers him around the new additions to the dancefloor, a number that grows on every beat as their friends and schoolmates decide to face the music.

The first recognisable couple that spins past are Cedric and Cho. Harry wants to smile at them, maybe say hi, but they really do only have eyes for each other. Next are Dean and Seamus, who had been making fun of him from the sidelines only seconds ago. He considers sticking out a leg to trip them, but he’d probably trip himself and Parvati too in the process. 

“They’re having fun,” Parvati snickers. Harry smiles.

The song around them shifts, and something a little more upbeat slips its way between the dancers. Fleur has already dropped Davies when they come across her. Instead she has Draco Malfoy waltzing about a quarter foot beneath her nose, with her heels, and she winks at Harry. As they twirl past Pansy and her date, Fleur holds one finger up from Draco’s shoulder and they switch partners seamlessly on the next spin. Harry is dizzy just watching, and when he looks to Parvati she’s blinking blankly after them, too. Theodore Nott and Draco’s dreamy-eyed date are coming up on them, and Harry meets his eyes and then sees him make the same signal with the hand at the girl’s waist. Harry’s eyes fly wide and he tries to shake his head but it’s too late, they’re crossing over, and while he panics and holds his hand out towards them, Parvati seems fully capable of taking care of landing herself in Nott’s arms. For a split second, he’s almost jealous of him.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” says the girl. “You’re looking very nice this evening.”

“Er, hi,” he says, and smiles. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she says, and offers him none to be going on with.

She’s very pretty, he thinks, as they curve around the fountain of ice sculptures that’s sprung up between feet. Her hair is long and wavy and is somehow not at all bustled by the twirling or the rising humidity. Her dress matches her eyes and floats around her mysteriously.

After barely half a minute of dancing, she says, “Oh, there they are,” and switches to Millicent Bullstrode.

Flummoxed and now in the arms of a Beauxbatons boy he sort-of recognises, he blinks and doesn’t argue at all when he automatically takes the lead.

“Bonsoir,” Harry says. “I’m Harry.”

“Bonsoir,” the boy says, smiling. “I am Florence. The girls ’ave been plotting.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good sign,” Harry says weakly, but Florence only laughs.

In robes of dark bronze that make his eyes swim like molten metal, Florence stands at least a foot taller than him, even with only a short afro and Harry’s tragedy of a mop. He gets them about a quarter of the way around the floor before he finds who he’s looking for and winks to Harry. 

“Good luck.”

Harry swallows. “You too,” he says, and then is spun into the waiting arms of—

“Of course,” Draco sighs, picking up the dance flawlessly. “I knew she was up to something.”

“Hey, Draco,” Harry says, and doesn’t choke on his own spit. He’s suddenly quite agonisingly aware of the state of his entire body; his palms are sweating, his feet feel less than coordinated, his face is no doubt flushed, and his hair probably looks like it usually does. At least he knows his robes aren’t anything offensive—he’d been poked and prodded by the best, after all.

“Potter,” Draco smirks. “I take it you weren’t in on this plot.”

“Why would I be in on this plot?” he asks, voice a few pitches too high. “Sounds like something I wouldn’t do. What’s the plot?”

Draco laughs. Actually laughs, and it’s not mean or anything. “Of course not, Potter. Ah, don’t they look like they’re having fun?”

Harry looks over his shoulder and looks between all of the couples behind him. Madame Maxime is very conspicuously dwarfing Hagrid, Professor Dumbledore is terrorising Professor Trelawney, by the looks, and, ah… Ron and Blaise. Ron is as red as Harry expects, anxious and spluttering and still very willing in Blaise’s hands. He snickers.

“Gonna be honest, didn’t really see that one coming.”

“I didn’t see Weasley as the type,” Draco says thoughtfully. “I’m glad, though. He looks happy.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and clears his throat. He turns back to Draco and suddenly finds the need to look anywhere but at his face. He’s embarrassing himself.

“I’m sure the song’s ending soon,” Draco says. “If they’re all refusing to switch until then, then we won’t have to wait much longer.”

“Yeah,” Harry says again. “Great, yeah.”

George comes past them then, laughing freely and happily, leading Cassius by the hand.

“Didn’t see that one working out, either,” Draco says. “Cassius was never going to say yes if his mother had a chance of finding out… I wonder what happened.”

“Who knows,” Harry agrees. He could throw in at least one idea.

The song ends, and Harry is lost in a horrible churning of anticipation, nerves, and disappointment. Without him noticing, Draco has danced them right to the edge of the crowd. He drops Harry’s hand and waves down Parvati and Pansy, and, once Harry’s been reintroduced to his date, is gone.

“What’s up with you?” Parvati asks him when they sit down for drinks. “You look shaken.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, wondering if he still knows any words with more than one syllable. “I don’t know. Have you been having fun?”

She smiles and takes a goblet from him. “It’s all right. I like this song though, are you sure you won’t ask me to dance?”

The music has taken a drastic turn. Harry assumes this is more the band’s regular programme, with the cheering crowd and rowdy flailing. It kind of looks like his worst nightmare, and he must accidentally show it on his face.

“Oh, all right,” she says. “But you’re dancing some time tonight.”

“Oh no,” Harry mutters, spotting red curls approaching from the sidelines. “Percy’s coming. What was that about dancing?”

She giggles and rolls her eyes, but downs the rest of her drink and takes his hand. “I know you’re having trouble, but all you need to do is relax,” she says, and leads him over to where Lavender and Seamus are having some sort of shouted conversation. Lavender notices Parvati and runs over to drag her in, so Harry goes to hover with Dean and Ginny dancing enthusiastically a couple of feet away.

“How’s the party?” Dean shouts. “Enjoying the special treatment?”

“As if!” he replies, frowning at Ginny and trying to copy whatever she’s doing. He succeeds in little else other than make her laugh harder, but that’s okay with him. “Where’s Nev?”

“No idea,” Dean says.

“Nott stole him!” Ginny says. “What is it with you lot and bloody Slytherins!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry tells her, and returns the tongue she sticks out at him.

“Harry!” Parvati shouts. “That spell you used in the task, was it the spell Malfoy used in second year?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Why?”

“Seamus keeps telling us it can’t be!”

Harry makes a face at him. “How many snake summoning spells do you know?”

“Good point!” he shouts, and trips over his own feet.

“Harry!” says Hermione’s voice from behind him. 

“Hey, Hermione!” He grins at her, shadowed by Krum. “How are you?”

“Brilliant!” she says. “Have you seen Ron? I can’t believe it!”

“I know,” Harry says, “he’s totally in it now!”

She laughs and they disappear off towards the stage again. Harry sort of loses track a bit after that. He dances with Ginny and Dean and Seamus and Fay, even, and when George falls over him and they end up on the floor everyone around them is howling with laughter, but he and George most of all. Harry spies Fred sneaking Hermione out of Krum’s hands at one point and Ron dancing a very uncomfortable looking thing with Parkinson and Susan Bones. Neville and Draco’s date (whose name he _still_ doesn’t know) come twirling past before Ginny steals her away, and then Harry’s being dragged farther into the fray by Katie and Alicia and loses all bearings as to where he is.

“Potter!” comes an unexpected shout uncomfortably close to his ear. 

“What?” Harry yelps, but not before he feels a hand close around his wrist and yank him towards… a direction. There are a lot of people they have to fight their way through, but Harry can’t help but think it’s totally worth the bumping around when the crowd finally spits them back out onto the sidelines. He spends an unashamed few moments with his hands on his knees trying to get his breath back.

“You looked like you were drowning,” Draco says.

“What, so you dived in to save me?”

“Most people say thank you.”

“We’re not most people, are we?”

It seems that Draco doesn’t quite have a response for that. Instead he swipes a fresh glass from the nearest table and gulps from it, seemingly unaware of the droplet making its way down the column of his throat that Harry just can’t tear his eyes away from.

“Take a picture, Potter,” he says next. Harry blinks and draws his gaze back up to his face.

“What?”

“Is that all you can say tonight? I said take a picture, Potter, it’ll last longer.”

“Oh,” Harry says stupidly. He hears someone, possibly Hermione, shriek with laughter somewhere in the distance.

“Are you one of those muggle machines?” Draco asks. “Have you overheated?”

“What? No!”

“You’re hardly convincing.”

“Are you going to suggest I go outside to cool off?”

“Well, your date is taken care of,” Draco hums, inclining his head to something over Harry’s shoulder. Harry realises a beat too late that he should be looking over there and not at Draco’s fingers tapping the rim of his empty flute, and when he does he catches sight of Parvati safely ensconced in a close dance with Lavender. 

“I don’t think they’ll miss me, somehow,” he agrees. Draco hums again and sets his glass down on the table, shrugging off his outer robe and tucking it over his arm before strolling towards the large, open doors. Harry’s brain stammers and he follows automatically, enticed, he tells himself, by the bite of the breeze that skims its way through towards them from outside. He wonders if there was something he didn’t know about in his drinks.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Harry startles again. “Er, somewhat. It’s all a bit mad if you ask me.”

Draco snorts. “It is, isn’t it. What’s the betting Weasley chickens out of snogging Blaise?”

“That—they’re going to do that?”

“What do you think these gardens are for?”

Draco sweeps out his arm, and indeed he may be right. All around them are soft golden faerie lights and thriving rose bushes trimmed around arching pergolas that would have Aunt Petunia green with envy. Snow settles thick on the ground and yet their shoes remain warm and dry, and the same must be said for farther out into the wilderness, as he is fairly certain that he can see Fleur with one of her Beauxbatons friends with their hands all over each other around the back of that shrub. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that a number of couples haven’t even made it as far as the garden, settling instead for getting handsy on the steps and walkways around the courtyard.

Harry makes the mistake of looking at Draco—and fuck, when _did_ he become Draco?—because then he feels himself surrendering to that hot flush again, and now is really _not the time._

The school carriages are tied not too far from where they’re walking the perimeter of the courtyard. A couple of them shudder in ways that Harry would rather not think about, and then of course _Snape_ manages to make it all worse by appearing out of the blue and starting to wrench open the doors to evict embarrassed couples. Draco snorts and then does a double take when he sees the two figures up ahead of them. Harry adjusts his glasses and peers towards them, finding himself rather taken aback to find it’s Anthony Goldstein nigh-on shagging one of the blondes from the Hufflepuff quidditch team right there against the wall.

“Smith? Really, Goldstein?” Draco scoffs. “Thought you could do better than that.”

“Hey!” both of them protest, though their attention is only held for half a moment at the most.

“Who was your date tonight?” Harry blurts. “She didn’t tell me her name.”

“Luna Lovegood,” Draco sighs. “Ravenclaw, third year, a distant cousin on my father’s side. Most people call her Loony.”

Harry frowns. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“It’s not meant to, is it? She does insist on blathering on about things no one understands, but she’s harmless once you realise that’s just how she is.”

“I thought she was nice.”

“You’ll be fighting the She-Weasley for her, I hear.”

“Ginny? Oh, that sounds interesting.”

“Doesn’t it just.”

“Potter,” sneers a dreadful, drawling voice from a few paces behind them. “What are you doing, skulking about?”

“Walking,” Harry says. He turns around to glare at Snape, noting the shifty form of Karkaroff clinging to the shadows behind him.

“And what am I?” Draco asks irritably. “A puff of air?”

Snape’s lip curls more than Harry’s ever thought possible. “I rather trust you not to go mixing yourself up with Potter’s reign of terror, Draco, or have you too taken leave of your senses?”

“I assure you we are not offending anyone as we are, my _dear_ Uncle Severus.”

Snape sneers at them again before whirling around and clipping off back down the walkway. “See to it that it stays that way!”

“God, he’s out for my bloody soul,” Harry mutters. “I so much as exist and it pisses him off.”

“I empathised, once,” Draco says quietly. Harry looks over so quickly something in his neck clicks.

“Once?” he repeats. He daren’t even hope for anything less than antagonistic, but all Draco responds with is, “Once,” said even more quietly, and a small nod. Harry follows his gaze to his shoes and back up again.

“Do you think we could have been friends? On the train?”

“Oh no, Potter,” comes the sardonic chuckle, “you were far too righteous for that even then.”

Harry licks his lips and darts his eyes around them before settling back on Draco’s tensed shoulders. “All right, well how about now?”

“Now?” Draco says, and this time he’s the one parroting. “What do you mean, now? Why all of a sudden? Why, after all I’ve tried to—”

“Because I know you apologised to Hermione last month,” Harry breathes. “I know you apologised to her and I know we’re all… Less volatile this year. I’ve had some thoughts.”

“You ought to get those checked out,” Draco mutters. “Could be dangerous.”

Harry snorts and shakes his head before holding out his hand. “Friends?” he asks.

Draco watches him quietly before slowly raising a hand to meet his. “But I’m not announcing it to the whole school.”

“Secret friends?” Harry grins.

“Grudging friends.”

“Good enough for me.”

“It should be, after I saved your life teaching you to summon.”

“Are you going to go on about that forever? The snakes got the egg.”

“Are you going to let go of my hand? And of course they did, you had a _dragon_ after you.”

Harry flinches and releases Draco’s hand hurriedly. His sweaty palm burns with the remnants of sensation.

“Shall we head back and find our friends?” Draco suggests, carefully casual.

“Yeah, let’s,” Harry agrees, if only because his mind has gone completely blank of all other words to say. They stumble into Ron and Blaise outside the Entrance Hall and Harry only barely has awareness enough to tease about it. Ron, thankfully, is too distracted himself to notice Harry’s preoccupation. 

He barely remembers getting back to the dorm that night, but man do his feet feel it when he finally gets into bed. Not even thoughts of dancing and snogging and strong hands and painted lips can distract him from his exhaustion, and his consciousness ends up drifting quickly away to the sweet serenade of kitten purring and Ron’s snoring.

Tomorrow is another day and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!  
> Maybe one day I'll finish, maybe one day, but for now this is as far as we get. Not so bad though, yeah?  
> Thank you again, and have a lovely day!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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